


Under The Cherry Tree

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Series: Cherry Tree Verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Accident, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Angst, Aphasia, Autism Spectrum, Bedsharing, Brain Damage, Bullying, Car Accidents, Depression, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Perfectionism, Recovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Jemma does an internship in a psychatric ward. In her breaks she notices a young man always sitting on the same bench under a cherry tree in the park of the hospital, and she feels drawn to him. A panic attack marks the start of a first careful approach.Or: FitzSimmons meet in a mental institution.





	1. Jemma

 

He’s sitting on the bench under the cherry tree, like every afternoon.

A soft breeze is blowing. The pink blossoms are raining down like snow. Some of them land in the young man’s curls. He doesn’t seem to notice. He stares down at his feet. His hands move restlessly. They stroke over the smooth surface of the bench, fumble with the buttons of his crumpled light blue shirt, form into fists, unclench to repeat their way. Eventually he runs one of his hands through his curls and some of the cherry blossoms entangled in his hair fall to the ground, circling softly in the air.

Jemma watches the man’s every move from where she’s sitting on her jacket on the soft fresh-smelling meadow, barely listening to the voice of her friend Susan who has been rambling about some attractive man from the cafeteria for almost half an hour now. It’s their daily afternoon break and they spend it in the little park of the hospital. The sun is finally strong enough to break through the clouds and spends a mild warmth. A lot of people are passing by, chatting and laughing. Some are in a wheelchair, a leg or an arm in a cast. Some are pushing an IV with them, looking pale but glad for every little beam of sunshine falling on their faces.

A barely touched box of salad stands beside Jemma and she figures if she doesn’t eat it soon, it will be invaded by ants. It’s the time of the year again where insects are everywhere, and she smiles when she notices a ladybug crawling slowly over her leg up to her knee.    

Somewhere a dog barks loudly. The man on the bench perks up. For a moment Jemma can see his face. There’s a faint stubble on it. He’s pale. And he looks exhausted. He’s squinting into the light and rubs his eyes, his movements somewhat sluggish. _He’s young_ , Jemma thinks. He can’t be much older than her. He lowers his head again, his fingers starting to pick at the hem of his shirt. Jemma wonders if he’s a patient or a student like her, taking part in an internship or doing a research study. Either way, there’s something about him, that transfixes her …

“Jemma, are you even listening?”

Jemma flinches at Susan’s question. Her friend’s voice sounds half amused half irritated. Jemma feels caught. “Sorry,” she murmurs, looking back to Susan, who shakes her head and sighs. “What’s on your mind today, Jems? Seems like you’re having your head in the clouds.”

Jemma shrugs. “Nothing in particular.” She starts to pick at the daisies around her and watches the ladybug which reached the top of her knee, sitting there like it’s enjoying the view. “Maybe it’s the exam.”

Susan groans. “God, the exam. Don’t remind me … I haven’t done anything for it so far. _You_ don’t need to worry though, Jems. You know that … You’re going to get your straight A no matter what.” She sounds slightly bitter. Jemma is used to that tone by now. She hums quietly and looks back to the bench. There’s a nurse now standing beside it talking to the man with a bright smile on her face. The young man doesn’t react to her, but eventually he gets up. He’s moving slowly, like he’s in pain. Jemma can see his face again. There’s a lost expression on it. When he’s up he sways momentarily and the nurse reaches a hand out to him, but he flinches back and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. He looks down and the nurse says something to him, walking away. The man follows her with slow, unsteady steps.

A patient, Jemma decides. She looks after him and chews on her lip. _He looks way too thin_ , she thinks.

“He’s cute, isn’t he,” Susan says and Jemma flinches, interrupted in her thoughts. “Too bad he's a patient. I would date him just to be able to stare into these blue eyes for a while." She smirks. “Now I know where your mind has been.”

Jemma frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just wondering … He’s sitting on that bench every afternoon. Do you know him?”

Susan frowns. "Not really. I was in his room once, when he got his meds. And when I was in the psych ward yesterday, to talk to a doctor, he started screaming. Nightmares. The doctor said he has them almost every day. It’s so bad that he has to be sedated sometimes,” she swallows und looks down at her hand which is stroking through the grass. The usual carelessness disappears from her face for a moment. “It was terrifying to hear someone scream like that, Jems.”

Jemma bites her lip. She connects that bit of information to his sluggish movements and the tired expression on his face and feels sad. He’s so young … “Do you know why he’s here?”

Susan shakes her head. “I don’t know the story. But I heard something pretty awful happened to him. Problem is, he’s not talking to anyone. Just gone silent. From one day to the other. And I heard he tried to kill himself. Guess that’s why he can’t be left alone out here for long.”

Jemma swallows.

Susan sighs. “You know what, Jems? I’m glad this is just an internship. I wouldn’t be able to do this every day for the rest of my life … It would destroy me.”

Jemma nods. She knows what Susan means. The ladybug on her knee spreads its little wings and flies away.

 

* * *

 

It’s early evening when Jemma prepares to leave the hospital, folders full of papers pressed to her chest. She has decided to study for the exam in the little break room in the psych ward. It is way more silent than her flat. Her roommate Milton loves unannounced parties. Jemma has thought about moving out a few times already, especially after Milton started to flirt with her – at least she thinks that’s what he’s attempting to do … - but she neither has the money nor the energy to search for a new flat right now.

First, she has to finish this internship and the impending exam next week. When she thinks about the exam, her stomach is actually clenching. Despite what Susan is thinking, Jemma hasn't learned as much for the exam as she would have done if she didn't also have to do a whole bunch of work for the internship. She doesn't feel well prepared at all. And she hates to not feel prepared. Faintly she knows she shouldn't be so focused on being perfect. That she shouldn't be so hard on herself and that she definitely shouldn't try to stay awake and efficient longer with the help of too much coffee. But that's how she's done things since she decided to start studying three subjects at once because two weren't enough. Now she just has to battle through it somehow ...

Jemma walks through the quiet hallway of the ward and yawns. This internship is making her really tired. Mostly because of all the new impressions she guesses. Sure, it’s fascinating to get to see the work of a therapist up close, but sometimes it’s also a lot to take in. She really hopes Milton didn’t invite his friends over to play Xbox the whole night.

Right when she’s about to let herself out the closed ward with her personal chip card, she hears a quiet noise. It sounds like a barely suppressed sob. She freezes and turns around, scanning the dim hallway.

She discovers a huddled figure on the floor. She also sees a mob of tangled curls and realizes a moment later that it’s the young man from under the cherry tree. He seems to be terrified. His whole body is trembling, his knees are drawn to his chest and his arms are wrapped around his chest tightly. He’s slowly rocking back and forth, and his breaths come in hectic shaking gasps. He’s having a panic attack, Jemma realizes. A pretty intense one, it seems.

She hesitates, looking around for a nurse or a doctor. But the hallway is empty. She looks back to the shaking young man and swallows. She has to do something. She can’t just let him sit there, caught in the clutches of his panic attack. She takes a deep breath and walks towards the young man.  

When she crouches down in front of him, she sees his eyes. They are wide open, staring into the void. The ocean-like blue in them is blurred by upcoming tears. His breathing is even more erratic now. It sounds like he’s hyperventilating. There’s a fine layer of sweat on his forehead. He’s gripping his own arms so tight she can see that his fingernails are piercing flesh. It has to be painful.

Jemma clears her throat. “Hey. Uh. I’m Jemma,” she starts in a – hopefully – gentle voice. “I … I saw you in the park today. On that bench under the cherry tree. Actually, I’ve seen you there every afternoon. Uh. I hope you don’t mind if I’m talking to you. I don’t know what you’re going through, but well, I’m here. I’m … well. I’m not a professional. I’m just doing an internship. But … I know that sometimes things are better when you’re not all alone. So, please know that I’m here. And I care.” She waits, looking at the young man to see his reaction.

She’s not sure if she’s just imagining it, but she thinks his breathing slowed down a bit. She shifts on her knees and tries a gentle smile. “Yes. I’m here and you’re safe. There’s nothing to fear here. Maybe … can you look at me?”

The man’s shoulders twitch. He lets out a trembling sigh. The next moment he raises his head just a tiny bit and looks up at her. His eyes lock with hers. There’s a single tear running down his cheek to his chin.

“Yes,” Jemma whispers. “Okay. And now, try to take some deep breaths for me. Here. I’ll do it too. You can just … just do it like me.” She starts to breathe in deeply, holding her breath for a moment and releasing it from her lungs all at once.

He’s staring at her, some more tears running over his pale face. His hectic breaths change to slightly longer, calmer ones. She nods, feeling relieved and amazed at once, and smiles at him. It’s working. She’s actually managing to calm him down. “That’s it. The steps you take don’t need to be big, you know. They just need to take you in the right direction. My mother always used to say that …”

She goes on talking, never letting her smile falter. She knows he’s listening. She simply knows. His hands stop gripping his arms. Instead, they are moving restlessly. He starts to scratch the back of his right hand. Red stripes appear on his pale skin. Although his body is still trembling, the tension leaves it a bit and now he seems more exhausted than fearful. His body slumps. But he’s still looking at her, with half-lidded eyes.

Suddenly, steps are approaching them, reverberating loudly in the hallway, and Jemma looks up, relieved to see a huge man in nurse clothes walking towards them quickly. There’s a worried expression on his face. He throws Jemma a volatile glance, then he crouches down, focusing on the shaking young man in front of him.

“There you are Turbo,” he says softly. “I was searching for you. Wanted to give you that DVD I was talking about the other day. That monkey documentation, remember?” He reaches out to touch the trembling man’s arm gently. “What about we get you to your room now, Fitz? It’s almost time for your meds.”

 _Fitz._ So there’s a name now. It sounds a bit strange but also somehow fitting. Jemma watches as Fitz looks up at the nurse, rubbing his reddish eyes. He takes a deep breath that sounds like a sigh and the next moment, he struggles to get up. But his legs tremble like leaves in a strong autumn gust and give way under him immediately. The male nurse quickly grabs him under his shoulders and pulls him up. Fitz lets him do it, even holding on to the strong arms of the other man for a moment. “That’s it,” the nurse mumbles, stroking a hand over the young man’s heaving back. “You’re going to be alright. Come on …”

He looks at Jemma, smiling. “I’ll be back in a moment. Wait for me?” He asks quietly.

Jemma nods wordlessly. Fitz throws a glance at her. It's fleeting. But the second their eyes meet, it feels like time is standing still for a heartbeat. She sees a lot in his eyes. Pain and sadness and confusion - but also a glimmer of light. He averts his gaze when the male nurse gently rubs his shoulder, murmuring something about well-needed rest. He doesn't look back at her for another time. The nurse leads him away, supporting him and mumbling to him softly the whole way, until they disappear in a room to the right together.

Jemma watches after them, feeling very agitated. Her heart is beating wildly in her chest and her throat feels tight. After a moment in which she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself, she sits on one of the uncomfortable chairs standing around, crosses her legs and waits, worrying her lip.

 

* * *

 

The male nurse comes back after what might have been fifteen minutes. He smiles at Jemma warmly and reaches out a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t get to introduce myself. I’m Alphonso Mackenzie. But you can call me Mack. Everyone here does.” His voice is pleasantly calm, and Jemma immediately feels herself relax. She returns his smile and squeezes his big hand. “Jemma Simmons. Please call me Jemma.”

“Can I invite you to a coffee, Jemma? Think you could need one now.”

Jemma nods. She thinks she already likes Mack. He radiates warmth and a certain calm kindness.

A moment later they’re sitting at a table in the otherwise empty break room, both with a plastic cup of hot coffee in front of them.

“So, you’re new here Jemma?” Mack asks.

“No. I’m doing an internship here at the hospital. For my studies.”

“I see.” Mack scratches the back of his head. “This must have been a pretty intense situation for you.”

“Well, yes. And I guess I wasn’t helping much,” Jemma murmurs, looking aside.

“No, you did very well,” Mack tells her, smiling gently. “That you managed to make Fitz actually listen to you is great. He’s … pretty caught up in his own head most of the time.” He sighs and rubs his arm. “To be honest, I was shocked to see him this way. He didn’t have an attack like this for a while now. Nightmares, yes. But not actually a full-blown panic attack on the floor.”

Jemma swallows and taps her finger against the warm plastic of the cup. “I hope you don’t mind the question, but … why is he here?” She asks. “My friend said something awful happened to him.”

Mack sighs. “It’s a long story. He really didn’t have much luck in his life. His mother died when he was ten and he lived alone with his father, an alcoholic. That bastard used to insult and beat Fitz until he broke his arm one day and someone at school fortunately decided to not believe the lie Fitz was advised to tell them. The classic _I tripped on the stairs-story_ ,” Mack scoffs. “Well. Fitz was taken away from his father and grew up in foster care. At least he had luck with the guy responsible for him. Phil Coulson’s a great guy. Really great. But the things Fitz's father said and did to him, they are haunting him. He never managed to get a lot of self-esteem and he's lacking social skills. There’s definitely childhood trauma.”

Jemma bites her lip. Child abuse. She stumbled over a lot of such cases since she’s been here. Broken bones. Burnmarks. And the everlasting shadow of screamed insults in the back of the mind. Unforgettable. Bruising for a lifetime. She can’t believe what parents are able to do to their children. She comes from a harmonic family. Sure, there were arguments from time to time. But that’s nothing compared to what Fitz or other people here had to go through.

Mack takes a sip from his coffee before continuing. “Fitz’s pretty smart, you know. A genius, really. He finished school earlier than his peers and was studying engineering, thanks to Coulson who managed to convince him he's not going to fail. And Fitz got the best grades in his year. Well. Then the accident happened. He’s just been to the wrong place to the wrong time. Drove over a bridge, got hit by some drunk driver who lost control over his car. It was a bad crash. The other man died later in the hospital. Fitz’s car fell into the water. He was unconscious because he hit his head pretty hard. Some passengers fortunately saw what happened and dived after him. They managed to pull Fitz out of the water and called the ambulance. But … he was underwater for too long. There was brain damage.”

“Oh God,” Jemma whispers, feeling her throat tightening.

Mack nods grimly. “Fitz was in a coma for nine days. He was actually laying here, in this hospital. On the ICU. After Fitz woke up, he had troubles with speaking and fine motor skills. He was also having seizures and bad migraines. So bad he couldn't move and was vomiting. He still has the migraines from time to time. He had to go through weeks of rehab just to gain some control over his body back. And his wounds healed slowly but … his mental state started to worsen with every passing week. He got severe depression and stopped taking care of himself. Eventually, he also stopped talking. Well. And someday he was found on the floor of his room with his right wrist cut open with a scissors.”

Jemma gasps. Her stomach clenches painfully at the image.

Mack sighs. “He was transferred to the psychiatric ward afterwards. And now he’s been here for almost a month, not making any noticeable progress. Life isn’t fair,” he adds in a bitter voice, taking another sip of his coffee. “I still hope he will start to talk again someday. And that he will find his will to live again. It’s pretty unsettling to see him sit in his bed half of the day, staring into the void.” Mack sighs. “I try to be there for him as much as I can, you know? Because he seems to do fairly well when I’m around. But … he’s not the only patient here of course. And Coulson can’t be here the entire day either. He has another foster girl to take care for.”

Jemma stares into her coffee. She remembers how Fitz looked at her. Remembers that glimmer of light beneath the dull exhaustion and hopelessness in his eyes. “Can I visit him tomorrow?” She asks abruptly.  

Mack looks at her surprised. “Of course, you can. He has his therapy session around half past eleven, and in the afternoon …”

“He’s outside. Sitting on the bench under the cherry tree,” Jemma says quietly.

“Yes,” Mack nods. “He does. I always take care he gets this half hour of fresh air. Even if someone has to watch him for safety reasons. He doesn't have much energy and doesn't leave his room often due to his depression. But on most days he seems to like to sit on that bench for some reason. Fortunately."

 _That’s where I’m going to talk to him_ , Jemma decides.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. She doesn’t even know if he’s going to listen. But she feels it’s the right thing to do. Somehow.


	2. Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for mentions of child abuse and references to a suicide attempt.

Fitz wakes up with a searing pain in his head. His body tenses and he gasps. It feels like his head is being split in two and he opens the mouth for a silent scream. The sunlight falling inside the room from outside is burning his eyes and he squeezes them shut, trying to roll on his stomach, only to gag because of a sudden violent wave of nausea.

He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and vomits on the floor. There’s not really anything in his stomach so it’s just hot burning sour-tasting fluid, which makes him gag even more.  Every little movement makes him feel unbearably dizzy, the world is turning around him and all he can do is trying not to fall off the bed.

Fitz doesn’t know how, but he manages to lay back down, breathing heavily, while the right side of his head pulsates lazily in white hot raging pain. He presses his face into the pillow and bites his lip so hard he can taste copper. Flashes of light explode in the darkness around him. He wishes he could fall back asleep again. He wishes he could just pass out. But mostly, he wishes he could disappear in the void. He wants to disappear, to dissolve, and leave nothing of himself back.

Existing is difficult.

Existing is loud, demanding, stressful. It’s unbearable.

Existing hurts.

But he can’t stop doing it, can he? He tried once and it only brought more pain. He vaguely remembers watching the blood pooling from his arm. He passed out feeling the pain and awoke hours later still feeling the echo of it, combined with an ache in his head.

Fitz whimpers as the pain pulses are changing into a faster rhythm that feels like a hammer is hitting the side of his  head.

Someone enters his room. Steps approach his bed, so loud they are vibrating inside his brain and he groans, pressing his fingers against his temples firmly. The Someone touches his shoulder and he flinches back, feeling nauseous again. A voice, way too loud, reaches his ears and he recoils further, trying to get away.

No. He wants _Mack_. Where’s Mack?

There are words, questions, but it all mingles with the sharp ringing filling his ears and becomes a cloudy blur.

Fitz vaguely notices the Someone leaving. Quick steps causing another earthquake in his mind. He whimpers and presses his thumbs against his temples. It has to stop. Someone make it stop. Stop …

Time passes around him. A firework explodes behind his eyelids and he sobs into the pillow.

He doesn’t know how long it has been when Mack finally arrives, but it feels like eternity.

Mack enters the room on deliberately silent feet. The first thing he does is to pull down the curtains carefully and Fitz wants to sigh in relief. Mack knows what to do. He always knows.   
  
Mack doesn’t touch him. He only crouches down to be on eye level with Fitz, bracing himself on the mattress, and when he speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper. “Bad day, huh Turbo?”

 _Bad day_. When is it not a bad day? Fitz doesn’t remember when it has been a good day for the last time. Good days are a thing of the past …

“Can you rate the pain on a scale from 1 to 10?”

1 to … what? A number. Mack wants a number. He can’t … he can’t think. He just reaches out to grab one of Mack’s big warm hands and squeezes firmly, whimpering.  

“Okay. It’s okay. I’m going to get your meds, alright? I don’t think the cooling pats would help much for this kind of attack,” Mack murmurs. There’s worry in his voice now. He gets up and disappears.

Fitz tries to count the seconds, he’s gone, but the pulses of pain interrupt his thought process. He whimpers and bites his own hand. It burns, but it isn’t strong enough to fade out the pain in his head. 

Eventually, in what could have a heartbeat or hours, Mack is back again. “Don’t hurt yourself, Turbo,” he murmurs and crouches down again, shaking pills into his hand. “Come on, you have to sit up for me, alright?”

Fitz weakly turns around onto his back. The motion makes the room spin around him. He grits his teeth and manages to sit up against the pillows, his head feeling so heavy it’s hard to keep it up. Mack hands him the pills. His hand is shaking but he still manages to throw them into his mouth, swallowing and flushing them down with a cup of water Mack hands him from somewhere.  

“The painkillers are going to work soon. Just try to relax, alright?” Mack tells him. “I’m going to talk to your therapist. Maybe he can postpone your appointment.”

Good. He asks too many questions Fitz can’t answer anyway. He always encourages him to talk, talk, talk. Fitz can’t. And he doesn’t want to. It’s no use trying.

Another wave of pain rushes through his head, this time on both sides, and he groans.

Mack sighs. “This is a hell of a week, huh. First the panic attack, now this …”

The panic attack. Yes, he had one yesterday. He doesn’t even know why. He had just wanted to go back to his room, after an appointment – Art therapy. The only thing he kind of likes. Because he’s given a piece of paper, colours and brushes and he can do what he wants. – and suddenly he couldn’t breathe anymore. It had felt like something pulled on him, trying to drag him down … underwater?  

At some point, someone has been with him. A young woman. The woman who has looked at him in the park the other day. He has noticed when he got up to go back inside. She has told him her name. _Jemma_. The name sounds lovely in his head, a little like the first note of a calm slow song, and he wonders how it would sound on his lips. _Jemma_.

He remembers her voice. It managed to cut through the curtain of fear around him. It had dragged him up to the surface …

Jemma. There was something about her … something that got his attention although his mind mostly floats in a heavy sea of apathy these days.

But it means nothing, he tells himself. She only looks at him because he’s a patient. Because he has a tragic backstory and a whole bunch of "interesting" symptoms. Because he’s broken and needs fixing. He has heard nurses and doctors whisper about him. He chooses not to talk. That doesn’t mean he’s deaf. He hears their words filled with pity and doctor-like interest at the same time. They see him as a challenge. As a puzzle missing a piece they try to find. Undoubtedly, Jemma feels the same.  

Mack, however, doesn’t see him as a challenge, he knows. Mack, who doesn’t look at him with pity in his eyes. Mack who brings him monkey movies. Mack who calls him Turbo for some reason unknown to Fitz, because everything he does these days goes incredibly slow, thanks to his shaking hands.

Fitz likes Mack. He really does. And he wishes he could tell him. But he can’t.

The painkillers start to work. He realizes faintly, that Mack gave him something strong this time. He feels himself drifting off slowly. It’s like floating on a life raft in the middle of the ocean.

He doesn’t fight it, instead waits for the darkness to swallow him.

Fitz notices that Mack starts to clean up the mess on the floor and hears music in the distance. Some slow ballade ...

Then: Silence.

 

* * *

 

When Fitz opens his eyes again, it’s way past noon.

The pain in his head is gone. There’s only a vague prickling left.

Fitz grimaces at the awful taste in his mouth and slowly moves to get the water on the nightstand. He almost manages to drink it without spilling a drop.

With a groan, he lies back and closes his eyes. His stomach growls and he frowns in irritation. He doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t want to do anything.

Just when he thinks, he can get back to sleep, Mack comes back into the room. “Feeling better, Turbo?”

Fitz nods.

“Good. The sun is shining. What about going outside like always to this time?”

Fitz just turns around and buries his face in the pillow. He doesn’t want to go outside. He wants to fall back asleep. Now.

“Hey. I know you’re having a horrible day. But you know you can’t stay in bed all day. And you want to be there today. Trust me,” Mack says, his voice still warm but now filled with  persistence.

Fitz shakes his head in a tiny, barely noticeable motion.

The next moment one of Mack’s hands is on his shoulder. “Come on, Turbo. Just a bit of fresh air. It will do your head good. Also we have to get you something to eat soon.”

Fitz sighs. The thought of food makes him feel nauseous again. But he moves to sit on the edge of the bed and looks up at Mack who smiles encouragingly. “Do you need to go to the bathroom first?” He asks and Fitz nods, getting up on legs that wobble. For a moment he thinks he’s going to fall, but he manages to take a step and then another. It’s slow and unsteady, but it works. Mack walks beside him, always ready to help, but Fitz makes it to the bathroom alone and for a good moment he almost feels satisfied.

He uses the toilet, sitting there slumped, breathing heavily, and for a moment he thinks he won’t find the strength to get back up. It happened before. Mack had to lift him up and help him with his pants. It was embarrassing. But by now, he’s used to embarrassing situations anyway. They happen almost every day. But still. He would like to avoid another one for today.

Fitz puts his hands on the grab bars beside the toilet and heaves his body up, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Bracing himself on the wall, he manages to get to the sink. He lowers his head while washing his hands. He hates to see his face in the mirror. Sometimes, it seems like the face of a stranger and then he remembers the past. Which, because the brain damage messed up not only his body but also his emotions, regularly causes crying jags.

He dries his hands clumsily and shuffles back to Mack.

Just another day in this nightmare of a life.

 

* * *

 

The cherry tree is weeping blossoms whenever a mild breeze blows through the branches.

Some fall on his hands and he looks at them blankly, not making any effort to wipe them away.

On another bench nearby sits a female nurse reading a magazine. They still watch him. Because they think he’s going to try it again, he knows. But he won’t. He remembers the horror, when he woke up afterwards, confused and in terrible pain. They had strapped him to the bed. He panicked because he couldn’t move and bit his lip so hard it stayed sore for days. Eventually, someone told him he would be transferred to the psych ward because he was considered a danger to himself. He didn’t really care. When the someone asked him if he wanted to object, he said nothing. He decided it wasn’t worth the effort and stayed silent, no matter what they told or asked him. Things were much easier that way.

He’s gone non-vocal for a while in his life before.

Once, after his father shattered an empty beer bottle on the kitchen wall. The glass shards scrunched under his heavy steps when he approached Fitz, who stood frozen in the door, his stomach clenching painfully.

He had just asked his father for some money. For a school trip to a museum.

“All you do is taking my hard-earned money, you worthless brat,” his father had growled. “And you show no gratitude. Exactly like your mother. She coddled you too much.”

Fitz said nothing. All he could do was staring into Alistair Fitz's angry face.

“Tell me, why should I waste my money for this? You’re stupid anyway. Not doing your exercises in school … Your teacher told me.”

Fitz wanted to tell him that the exercises were too easy. That he couldn’t understand why his teacher wasn't willing to give him something else. He was bored out of his mind most of the time and sometimes not doing the exercises was kind of a silent protest, but it was no use. His father won’t care about an explanation. He never did.

The next moment, Alistair grabbed Fitz by the collar of his shirt, lifting him up effortlessly. “What are you, retarded?” He asked, shaking Fitz so strong, his teeth clattered. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming, and Fitz tried hard not to gag. “Why am I being punished with a son like you? Sometimes I really ask myself if your mother cheated on me … Maybe you aren’t even mine. Who knows?”

Fitz said nothing. He didn’t say anything for two weeks, until his father broke his arm and advised him to tell the doctors and the teachers he tripped on the stairs. One of his teachers shook his head and told Fitz to stay after school. He asked a lot of questions and eventually called the police. Fitz didn't understand what was going on.

Later, he realized he was taken away from his father. 

Fitz went silent again, after being asked countless questions by the police. They were nice, giving him cookies and lemonade, telling him he didn’t have to be afraid. But he was scared and confused anyway and eventually he stopped talking because it was too much.  

He stayed silent until they dropped him off at the foster home. He stood in a foreign hallway, a bag in his hand. A man stood in front of him. “I’m Phil Coulson,” he said, reaching out a hand smiling. Fitz flinched it and fled. He ran into the first room he passed, hiding in a wardrobe. There were a lot of clothes around him. It was dark and silent. He curled into a ball and bit his hand closing his eyes.

Without doubt, the strange man would be angry now. Fitz wondered if he would beat him too.

But when Coulson came, he sat down in front of the wardrobe, putting a tray with two plates and two glasses on it beside him on the floor. “Guess we’re going to have breakfast here then,” he said softly, crossing his legs.

Fitz’s stomach growled when he smelled pancakes. But he pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them, his eyes still closed.

Coulson stayed. He drank his coffee and ate his pancakes. He even read the newspaper. He didn’t rip the wardrobe open and told Fitz to come out. He didn’t make any snide comments on how rude Fitz’s behaviour was. He just was there.

Maybe, Fitz thought sometime, maybe he’s different. He was still scared, but he also was hungry. And thirsty.

He opened the door of the wardrobe, coming out of it slowly.

“There you are,” Coulson said and smiled. “Do you like pancakes with chocolate chips? I hope so. I ate the ones with blueberries.”

“I like both,” Fitz said quietly, adding a quick “Sir.”

Coulson’s smile widened and he handed Fitz a plate with a huge heap of pancakes on it. “Alright buddy. You don’t need to call me Sir. Just Phil is perfect.”

So Fitz called him Phil.

And after a year, he called him Dad.  

  
Fitz feels a bit warmer when he thinks of Coulson. He has never yelled at Fitz. Not even when he broke the old vase in his living room with a self-built drone. He has just sat in front of the wardrobe into which Fitz disappeared in fear of the surely inevitable scolding maybe involving a belt – _because everyone needs the strap across their back now and again. It teaches respect._ – and said calmly, “It’s just a vase, son. It’s just a thing. It’s expandable. You are not. Now, why won’t you come out and show me this cool flying thing you built? I have honestly no idea how you –“

“I disassembled the old toaster and the computer in the storeroom,” Fitz whispered then, his face burning. Now. Now Coulson had to get angry. But Coulson just laughed. He laughed and called Fitz “smart”.

Yes. Coulson called him smart and talented and brave. He convinced the school to let Fitz skip two classes. For the first time ever Fitz wasn't bored. Later Coulson told him to go to university. Told him to live his dreams. He told Fitz he was proud.  
And now Fitz messed everything up. After he woke up from his coma Coulson sat at his bedside and told him he would get through this. He would recover and would be able to go on. But Fitz isn’t strong enough. He fell and will never manage to get up again. He is just as useless as his father told him all these years before …  
No matter what Coulson says, how could he be proud now?

Fitz feels tears burning in his eyes. He wipes them away angrily and that’s when a shadow falls on him.

He looks up and there she is.

The woman who stayed with him when he had the panic attack. _Jemma_.

“Hello,” she says and smiles. “It’s nice to see you.”

Hardly, Fitz thinks confused. He guesses she's just trying to be polite.

“I hope it’s okay if I sit here for a moment. The grass is quite cold and wet today.” She waits. For an answer, maybe.

Fitz lowers his head again.

After a while, Jemma sits beside him and pulls out a box. There’s a sandwich in it. Cut into two neat halves. She takes them and hands one to Fitz. “Here. I’m not hungry enough to eat the whole thing,” she says.

Fitz stares at the sandwich. He blinks. She is trying to share her food with him. His stomach growls. Quite loudly. Jemma chuckles. It’s a light and warm chuckle. It doesn’t sound mean. Fitz feels his ears starting to burn.

“You’re hungry,” Jemma says softly, and he realizes, he’s still staring at the sandwich. Fitz swallows. He is. The only food he had today, was one of the milkshakes Mack makes him. It’s easy to eat, he just has to slurp it through a straw. It’s a compromise between them, because Mack told him if he refused to eat at all, they would have to use a feeding tube and Fitz won’t ever let them do this to him again. He remembers how it felt when they pulled it out and nearly gags at the unwelcome memory.

He takes the sandwich and their fingers briefly touch. Her skin is warm and soft. He pulls back quickly. The sandwich smells good. His stomach growls again. He stares at the food and knows he’ll have to eat it. Otherwise … otherwise Jemma would think bad of him. She would think he’s rude. Not only that, she would be sad or disappointed or even angry. The smile on her face would fade …

Fitz takes a hesitant bite.

The next moment, he stares down at the sandwich in astonishment. It’s extraordinarily delicious.

“It’s prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella with a hint of homemade pesto aioli,” Jemma explains. “I hope you like it. Everyone always tells me it’s the best sandwich I’m making, so …” She stops with a shrug and a sheepish smile, biting into her own half.

There’s silence while they’re both eating. Jemma is finished much sooner than him, because his movements are slow and sluggish. His hand is shaking so he has to be careful not to drop the sandwich. The thought of how upset she would be, if he’d do that, helps.

Eventually, after wiping her mouth with a napkin, she starts talking. “Well. I know, I already told you, but … I’m doing an internship here. It’s going to take another three weeks. I’m studying bio-chemistry. It’s great, but sometimes, it really is a lot …”

Fitz chews on the sandwich and listens to her, not really knowing how to feel. He doesn’t get why she’s here. Why would she spend her time here on this bench, beside a broken shell of a man? It doesn’t make sense. She’s always been here with another woman. A friend, certainly. So why does she choose to spend her precious break sitting beside him and talking? Unless ... Maybe she thinks of him as kind of a project? Trying to get him to talk ... But she didn't ask him a question. Not even once. She just continues talking.

“I really hope I can do something good in the future, you know. Something that helps people.” Jemma’s face suddenly gets more serious. A barely noticeable shadow flicks over her eyes. “However, at the moment I’m quite stressed. I mean, I love my studies and I love to be good at it. But that’s the point, right?” She laughs a bit nervously. “Always wanting to be better than you are can be … exhausting. Also, I hope I eventually find a flat for myself … my flatmate loves parties way too much. Especially parties which take place before I have a test, apparently. Sorry, I hope it’s okay I tell you these things. I got a bit carried away …” Now she seems a bit worried. She bites her lip and scrunched up her nose.

It’s lovely. Fitz is surprised when he realizes that if he could, he would have told her, that he could listen to her voice all day. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s someone kind who doesn’t try to get him to talk but instead talks about herself. Maybe it’s her eyes which don’t stare at him, trying to figure out what’s behind his silence. Maybe it’s her smile. Or the way she wipes a strand of hair out of her forehead. Maybe.

Jemma throws a glance at her watch and sighs. “My break is almost over. I’ll have to go back inside. I hope you enjoyed the sandwich and I hope I didn’t bother you with anything. Thank you for listening and … I hope we’ll see each other again.” She smiles and then she leaves.

Fitz stares after her, so transfixed, that he doesn’t even notice the man who approaches, until he throws another shadow – a much larger shadow than Jemma – on him. He blinks up and sees Coulson, who looks curious. “Hey, who was that?” he asks, looking after Jemma. “She seemed to be nice.”

Fitz throws another glance at Jemma’s back. She disappears around a corner the next moment. He knows he wants to try out how her name sounds on his lips. But he also knows that once he starts talking, she might do what almost everyone else did, when he tried to find words after waking up from the coma: looking uncomfortable or pitying. He would hate to see that on her face.

Maybe it’s better to stay silent.

“Robin drew a picture for you,” Coulson tells him. “She can’t come today, because she’s with a friend.”

Robin is one of Coulson’s current foster kids. She lost her parents in an accident. Fitz likes her a lot because she’s not talking much either. He likes when she comes to visit. She would sit on the bed and draw. Just that.

Coulson pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to Fitz. It’s the picture of a monkey. It has brown fur and black shining eyes. Robin also drew a wide smile on its face. There’s a sun shining brightly above the monkey which sits on an apple tree.  

Fitz looks at the picture and smiles. He’s almost surprised when he realizes he feels much warmer inside now.

He asks himself if Jemma will talk to him again. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Still, he thinks of her smile and it creates a little rainbow in the dull grey of his mind.


	3. Jemma

“For God’s sake, Milton! Turn the music down!” Jemma yells, massaging her temple with two fingers. Her head is killing her. A sharp pain shoots through it every time she tries to get back to studying. And Milton’s music, if one can call it _music_ , isn’t helping at all. It’s a stressful combination of aggressive electronic sounds and a scratchy voice shouting monotonous rows of short words.

Jemma has an important exam in only four days. She doesn’t feel prepared. The fear of failing is ever-present in her mind.  
  
Milton appears in the doorframe, craddling a bowl of popcorn to his chest. He throws a handful into his mouth and munches on it noisily while mustering her through his glasses. “God, Jemma,” he mumbles around the popcorn. “Are you still studying? It’s bloody Friday night. You don’t need to be the best at everything every time, you know? You could do nothing and still get a straight A. Why don’t you relax a bit? A break would do you good.” He looks her up and down pointedly and raises his eyebrows. “You look like you’re a time bomb ready to explode.”

Jemma glares at him. “First of all, it’s not your concern how much effort I put into my studies. Second, I’m definitely going to explode if you don’t turn that poor excuse of music down, Milton.”

“It’s _Skrillex_ ,” he mumbles sounding offended. Jemma shoots daggers at him. “Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’ll turn it down. Geez Jemma, you know what? I think you need a date. I’m sure it would make you less … grumpy.” Somehow, he manages to put a broad suggestive grin on his face while still munching on his stupid popcorn.

Jemma jumps up and slams the door into his face. “What I need is my own flat,” she grumbles. She groans when another wave of pain rushes through her head and throws herself face-down on the bed. Why did she ever agree to this? Why did she think it was a good idea to share a flat with her former classmate, who she’d always known to be lazy and annoying and sometimes purely obnoxious?

Well, of course one important reason was, that her mother and Milton’s mother are close friends, ugh. When your mother and her best friend look at you with matching wide smiles on their faces and tell you how utterly _lovely_ it would be if their children shared a flat together, you can’t say no, right? Right. Now she’s stuck here, at least until she finds another affordable flat for her own, which could happen literally never, because flats around here are rare _and_ expensive.

Jemma sighs and turns around to lay on her side. She takes the picture of her family from her nightstand and looks at it smiling. The photo was taken on a vacation in Paris. She's standing in front of the Eiffel Tower with her mother and father. They're all smiling and Jemma discovers with a hint of amusement, that her younger and smaller self has a missing tooth. A dull throbbing starts in her belly and she realizes she feels homesick.

Involuntarily, she thinks about Fitz again. Fitz, alone in his hospital room. Does he feel homesick sometimes too? Does he feel lonely, lost in a way too big world, just like her?

Jemma notices that Milton turned the music down by now. She can still hear it, but at this volume, she guesses she can block it out. She puts the photo of her family back on the nightstand, sits on the edge of her bed and does some stretching exercises, trying to get the tenseness out of her muscles. She cracks her neck and rolls her shoulders. “Back to work, Simmons,” she murmurs to herself.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Jemma is visiting art therapy.

It's her favourite experience so far. She likes the atmosphere in the little art room. It’s calm and peaceful. Soft piano music is floating through the spaces between the patients sitting in front of the canvas. She also likes Rebecca, the vivid art teacher, who's flitting from artist to artist, finding kind words for everyone’s work.

Jemma helps by fetching clean water for the artists and washing the brushes. It’s around noon, when she discovers Fitz. She didn’t even notice his arrival. He’s sitting in front of a canvas in the far corner of the room. He’s wearing a cardigan today, light blue - the colour he’s using on the paper right now. It looks good on him, pronouncing the slightly darker blue of his eyes. He’s clean-shaven today and looks much younger, although his cheeks are hollow. In the small beams of sunlight that fall into the room, his curls shine almost golden.

Jemma watches him and realizes that for the first time since she has met him, Fitz doesn’t look exhausted and his movements aren’t sluggish. He seems transfixed, his intense gaze fixed to the canvas, the grip around the brush firm. He moves it over the canvas smoothly, in an instinctive certainty. He’s biting his lip in concentration and when he leans back to study his work, he runs his tongue over his lower lip.

Jemma catches herself staring at him and quickly averts her gaze. Her cheeks feel warmer and her stomach flutters momentarily. It almost feels like … No. She bites her lip, feeling almost shocked. _No_. She’s not going to develop a crush on a patient. It … it doesn’t feel right.

“Jemma.” She flinches when Rebecca appears beside her. The woman smiles at her and hands her a glass of clear water. “Could you give this to Fitz?”

“Of course,” Jemma murmurs. She approaches Fitz and comes to a halt beside him. He doesn’t seem to notice her. Jemma looks at the canvas in awe. He hasn’t been here for long but there’s already a whole world existing on the formerly blank paper. There’s a calm ocean and a shore. A cliff with the contours of a lighthouse that needs yet to be coloured. It’s going to look like a picture from a postcard, Jemma thinks. “This is beautiful,” she breathes, not able to contain her amazement.  

Fitz flinches. His brush slips and a splotch of red breaks the faint black line of the lighthouse. Jemma immediately feels guilty. He looks up at her with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” Jemma says quickly. “I didn’t want to disrupt you. Just … this is really stunning. You’re so talented.”

Fitz’s eyes fill with a combination of surprise and doubt. He looks back at his picture and frowns. It seems he sees something in the colours she doesn’t. Jemma puts the water on the little table beside the canvas and bites her lip. She searches for some other words she could say, but ends up apologizing again. "Sorry ..."

She turns and goes back to the other side of the room, where Rebecca is studying finished works. The art therapist looks up at Jemma and smiles knowingly. “He’s good, isn’t he? I asked him if I could display some of his works, but I never got a reaction that I could interpret as approval, so of course I didn’t do it,” she tells Jemma, throwing a glance at Fitz.

“He seems to like it here,” Jemma says quietly. “I don’t know him for long, but I’ve never seen him so … so at peace, until now.”

A hint of sadness enters Rebecca’s eyes. “He’s been through a lot. The memories must be haunting him. Art can be like an escape. You can lose yourself in the colours for a while. And I think he likes that no one is pressuring him here.” She hesitates. It seems like she wants to say something she knows she shouldn’t. But finally, she leans towards Jemma and murmurs, “I’m not one to talk bad about colleagues, but … I don’t think their approach does help him much. They want him to talk. They think if he doesn’t talk, they can’t help him. I think they don’t get that he might have special needs. I had a long talk with his foster father once and I’m pretty sure Fitz is autistic. However, I just want him to have a retreat, a place where he knows he doesn’t have to do anything.”

“I think that’s great,” Jemma tells her, feeling even more sympathy for Rebecca now. The art therapist smiles at her and goes back to study the finished paintings on her table.

After a while, Mack leans into the room, knocking at the doorframe lightly. “Hey Fitz, you’re ready for physical therapy?”

Fitz narrows his eyes. He looks at his hands, which are scattered with blue and red splotches, then back at his unfinished work. He frowns deeply. Rebecca goes to him and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You can continue later, alright? I’ll open the room for you.”

Fitz sighs but then he nods curtly, getting up. His sluggishness is back, and he sways slightly on the spot. Jemma almost wants to reach for his arm to steady him, but she restrains herself. He needs to do this alone. She looks at his painting and sees that he added an incredibly detailed seagull sitting on top of the lighthouse.

 

* * *

 

In the evening, studying is frustrating. She can’t focus at all, and Milton isn’t even listening to his horrendous dubstep music today. The words blur in front of her eyes and she has to read paragraphs three, four times, until she understands at least half of it. The headache is back too.

Eventually, she gives it up. She ends on her bed again, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about … everything and nothing.

She begins with her ever-lasting worry about that exam and ends with thinking about Fitz’s picture. The ocean he painted has been calm, but he added some grey clouds above it and she remembers her talk with Mack. Remembers how the nurse told her about Fitz’s depression. She once read, that when you’re depressive, your world is grey. That you constantly feel numb. Numb to emotions. Numb to life.

Jemma can’t imagine how it must look inside his mind. His past, the childhood trauma, the stress of being taken from his father and put into a new home. The accident …  He has been ripped out of his life in a heartbeat. Just like that.

Fitz would have been trying to study now too, if he hadn’t almost drowned. Maybe, he would have ordered a pizza and would have drunk too much coffee. Maybe, he would have flopped on his own bed when he got too tired, sighing and massaging his temples just like she was massaging hers right now.

Sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

Bad things could happen to her too, Jemma realizes. Like, really bad things. Not just a failed exam … You can repeat exams. But … she could have an accident. She could be abducted. She could get a severe illness.

It scares her to think about this. But at the same time, she realizes, that she has always had a lot of luck in her life. She grew up in a loving family. Of course, there were arguments from time to time, but they always had an end. They always apologized to each other and everything was alright. Her parents always supported her. Even when she told them she wanted to go to the States. They were crying. But they told her to do it. For her future. Jemma swallows, when the throbbing in her stomach is back. The homesickness again …

And although she never had the reason to feel like she’s not enough, she still struggles with her perfectionism. She still can’t bear the thought of not being good in her studies. She’s a woman after all and let’s face reality, women are still not treated equally. It’s horrible and frustrating and it makes her incredibly angry, but it’s the truth. She has to be great now for getting somewhere great one day. She wants to be in a position where she truly can help people. Sometimes, she thinks she could use some therapy sessions herself. But she never finds the courage to ask and most of the time she convinces herself that she's perfectly fine. Just a bit ... stressed. Like most students certainly.

And Fitz? He had to struggle his whole life and now it surely seems to him that it will never end.

Jemma decides to join him on the bench under the cherry tree tomorrow again. She will make the sandwich again. He seemed to like it.

 

* * *

 

 

The bench under the cherry tree is empty.

Jemma frowns. She looks at her watch. Fitz should be here by now. But … maybe he’s just a bit late. She decides to wait and sits down on the bench, putting the box with the sandwich on her lap. The sun is shining and the warmth on her face is pleasant. She watches the people passing by and waits. And waits. But Fitz doesn’t come.

Jemma throws another glance at her watch. Her break is over soon … Her stomach growls and she decides to eat her half of the sandwich now. She’s going to look for Fitz after her shift.

 

Later, Jemma walks through the psychiatric ward, searching for Mack. She finds him in the little break room, drinking a coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Hey, Mack,” she says and joins him, sitting down opposite of him.

Mack looks up from the newspaper and throws her one of his warm big smiles. “Ah, Jemma. Good to see you.”

“Good to see you too. Um. Is Fitz alright? He wasn’t outside today …”

Mack sighs. He shakes his head and Jemma immediately feels worried. “Well. It’s one of these days I can’t get him to do anything. He doesn’t want to eat or drink. He doesn’t want to move. And he, uh, threw the glass of water I brought him against the wall. The night nurse told me he had a bad nightmare again and wetted the bed. I guess the embarrassment was too much for him. He can’t balance his emotions well because of his brain injury …”

“Oh.” Jemma swallows. Her heart hurts for Fitz … “Well, I … I made him a sandwich again. He really liked it the last time. So, I thought he would be happy about it. Do you think I could visit him in his room?”

Mack throws her a doubting glance. “I don’t know, Jemma. I think he wants to be left alone today. But … of course you can try.”

“Okay.”

 

The door to Fitz’s room is open.

He is laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes are open but blank. His curls are a tangled mess and his skin seems almost papery. He looks ... _done_. There’s no other word to describe what she sees. Jemma almost considers not even trying. But … something’s holding her back. She still has his half of the sandwich in her box and she isn’t one to easily give up. She knocks on the doorframe lightly, clearing her throat.

Fitz flinches and turns his head to look at her. His eyes widen a bit.

“Hey. Can I come in?” Jemma asks, wringing her hands.

Fitz blinks. He moves and Jemma thinks he’s going to turn around, away from her, but he sits up slowly and leans against the pillows. Then, he gives her the tiniest nod. Jemma smiles and feels more certain. She steps in and throws a look around.

The room looks quite bleak. There are an empty table and a chair, a tv in the corner and a nightstand beside the bed. Beside from the necessary furniture, there aren’t much individual things, not as many as Jemma would have expected from a room for a long-term patient. There is a little plant on the windowsill, but it looks sad, the leaves hanging low, their green about to fade into a light yellow on several spots. She discovers some pictures on the wall beside the bed. A little house on a hill. Some cats and dogs. A smiling monkey. It looks like they were drawn by a child.

Jemma takes the chair and puts it beside the bed, sitting down on it and folding her hands in her lap. Fitz is watching her, the blue in his eyes intense. She clears her throat and smiles nervously. Fitz averts his gaze and picks at the hem of his pyjama for a moment. Suddenly, he reaches for a little note block on the nightstand and a pencil. Jemma watches as he readjusts the grip of his fingers around the pencil a few times and finally starts to write something on the block, a concentrated frown appearing on his pale face.

Eventually, he stops and shows her the block, a slight blush appearing on his face.

 _Thank you. For the sandwich,_ Jemma reads. Her heart makes a little jump. This is the first time he’s communicating with her. “You’re welcome,” she says, smiling at him.

His eyes flick over her face and he starts to write something again. It takes longer this time and he crosses something out now and then, gritting his teeth. Jemma waits patiently. She watches his every movement transfixed, thinking about how nice his fingers are. They seem like they are made for creating amazing things. She wonders about herself and thinks that maybe, she should have more appropriate thoughts, but then, Fitz finishes writing and hands her the block again.

_I find peace in silence. I’m sorry ~~I can’t I need~~ I can’t talk right now. ~~It’s not~~ I don’t want to. ~~Bu~~ But I want you to know, ~~that I appr~~   that I liked that you were talking to me. All the time, people try to get me to talk or to do things. You didn’t. Thank you. Jemma. _

She swallows, her heart heavy with emotion. She looks up at him, into his eyes that look a little red rimmed, like he had been crying not long ago. “Fitz, you know, you don’t need to explain why you’re not talking. And it’s your decision if and when you start to do it again. Um. If you still want the sandwich …” She takes the box out of her bag, opens it and shows him the remaining half of the sandwich. “It’s yours.”

Fitz looks at it. He runs a hand through his hair and picks at his clothes again. It seems like he’s fighting with himself. But the next moment, his stomach growls and he blushes. Jemma chuckles. “Seems like you’re hungry,” she tells him softly.

Fitz bites his lip. Finally, he reaches for the sandwich, taking it out carefully, his hand shaking only slightly. He takes a small bite, chewing on it a few times.

Jemma smiles. She decides to take a look at her notes again while he’s eating, because she doesn’t want to stare, though she can’t focus that much on the information right now. She can’t believe Fitz basically talked to her. For the first time ever, she got a glimpse of his thoughts. It makes her feel … special somehow.

When Fitz finishes the sandwich, he wipes at his mouth and throws a glance at the carafe of water standing on the nightstand. There’s no glass or cup. “Oh. Wait, I’ll get you a cup,” Jemma tells him and jumps up. She leaves Fitz’s room and walks towards the break room, where she knows are some plastic cups for water dispenser there.

Mack is still there. He looks up at her, smiling. “How’s it going?”

Jemma beams at him. “Great. He ate the sandwich.”

Mack raises an eyebrow. “He did?” He asks surprised.

“Yes.” Jemma grabs one of the plastic cups. “And he kind of talked to me. Through written words.”

Mack hums. “I’m … wow. You have quite the effect on him, Jemma Simmons. Maybe you should take my place.”

Jemma’s face gets warmer and she knows she’s blushing. “Oh no, I think you’re exactly the kind of nurse he needs Mack, I’m just … I’m only someone who showed up and talked to him. I won’t be here forever.” She shrugs and smiles.

“Or you’re special,” Mack murmurs, but Jemma already turned around to return to Fitz’s room.

  
“Here!” Jemma says brightly, walking back into Fitz’s room. She pours the water into the cup and Fitz watches her, the tiniest hint of a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. She beams at him and hands him the filled cup.

But just when Fitz closes his fingers around it, a visible tremor flashes through his hand. He drops the cup and it falls to the floor, the water soaking one of the blue slippers standing beside the bed.  

They both stare down at the plastic cup and the puddle of water for a moment.  

Jemma clears her throat. “I’m going to … to wipe this up.” She grabs the pack of tissues on the nightstand and quickly swipes the water, picking up the crumpled empty cup. When she looks back at Fitz, she freezes. His shoulders are slumped, and his head hangs low. His body is trembling and he’s crying silent tears. One is dripping from his chin on his hand that’s clenched into a tight shaking fist.

Jemma’s first instinct is to hug him. It’s probably not what she’s supposed to do. But she does it anyway. She simple wraps her arms around his bony chest awkwardly. Fitz twitches momentarily, but then a heavy sigh escapes his throat and he goes slack, his head tipping forward to lean against Jemma’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” she whispers. “You’re going to be alright …”  She doesn’t know if he believes her. But she hopes so.

They stay like this for what could be seconds or eternity. Time passes and Jemma feels Fitz’s trembling getting weaker. He eventually raises his head and she looks at him, their eyes locking. She’s stunned for a moment. The still lingering tears make Fitz’s eyes look like a watery mosaic of different shades of blue. She can see freckles and a little scratch on his chin and that’s when Jemma actually realizes how close they are. She can feel his breath on her skin and smells perspiration. Oh no. She intruded his private space without even asking for permission. “Sorry,” she murmurs, backing away quickly and clearing her throat. Her cheeks feel warmer.

Fitz looks away. He rubs his right hand with his left one restlessly.

A deafening silence builds up between them. Somewhere, a door closes, and quick steps approach. Someone looks into the room. It’s Mack. He looks at them with calm curiosity. “Hey, Fitz. I heard you had something to eat. That's great. Do you still want a milkshake?”

Fitz shrugs. He still doesn’t look at Jemma. She starts to feel a bit uncomfortable. “Um. I’m going to leave now. I  have an exam soon and … and I really should start studying,” she says and gets up on legs that feel somehow wobbly. “Goodbye, Fitz. Mack …”

She leaves the room without checking if Fitz looks at her. Her mind is filled with too many thoughts and she can’t catch even a single one of them.

After roaming the floors of the ward and drinking some water – she didn’t even notice how dry her throat has been all the time … - Jemma decides to study in the hospital cafeteria until evening. But like the day before, it’s difficult to focus. Too often, she remembers Fitz’s words, his fingers moving to write in neat yet lopsided letters, remembers his warmth when they were close and her own heartbeat picking up speed in that moment.

Oh Jemma, a little voice says in the back of her mind. Oh Jemma. You know what’s happening right now, don’t you?

Yes, she thinks and sighs inwardly. And I can’t let it happen. It isn’t right … No. It really isn’t.   

 

* * *

 

  
It’s already dark when Jemma walks home. The streets are mostly empty. It’s pleasantly calm around her and the air smells faintly after the last rain shower. From time to time, a bat is flying over her head, on their restless search for food.

In her mind, she’s trying to build a proper learning schedule for tomorrow. She doesn’t have much time left and slowly, an old known panic creeps into her heart. But no matter how hard she tries to avoid it, Fitz and today’s happenings still interrupt her thought processes.

She asks herself anxiously, if she went too far. If she did something so wrong that it affects him in a negative way.

But at the same time, she remembers how he put his head against her shoulder like he was searching for closeness. For comfort.

She also remembers the very tiny smile on his face when she poured him that cup of water and how it made his eyes shine brighter.  
Yes, she can’t deny it. He’s really quite sweet …

Jemma crosses the street and is about to tell herself again, that she can’t allow herself to fall in love with a vulnerable patient, when she hears the tires screeching.

She raises her head and looks into way too bright headlights, blinding her.

_Oh._

It happens in a heartbeat.

She’s hit and thrown off her feet, landing on her back on hard concrete. The breath she wanted to take is knocked out of her lungs. She stares up. The night sky above her is clear. So many stars …

Somewhere, a car door is slamming. Someone is screaming. But everything is turning into a faint rushing noise in Jemma’s ears, as darkness creeps into her vision and numbness spreads in her body, that feels strange … Heavy and light at the same time. There’s a dull but intense throbbing in her right arm and leg. It feels like it could develop into pain sometime.

My exam, Jemma thinks distantly, while her eyes are slipping shut. My exam … I have to take it.

The darkness pulls at her and she isn’t strong enough to persist.

Her last coherent thought isn’t her exam, it’s Fitz. Fitz, who is writing her name on a piece of paper …

 _Bad things happen to good people._  
  
  
Jemma closes her eyes and knows no more.


	4. Fitz

It’s one of his better days. Fitz can feel it.

No aching headache. No nausea. No violent tremor in his hands. And, most importantly, no nightmares. His sleep has been blank. He fell asleep in the evening and woke up in the morning, to the noise of rain beating steadily against the windowpane. He actually feels rested and refreshed, filled with enough energy to take a shower, even when he has to lean back against the wall the whole time because his legs are wobbly.

The warm water feels heavenly on his skin. He closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift off. They find the new memories of Jemma. She’s been in his room yesterday. He didn’t come outside to the bench and for some reason she decided to go to search for him. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about this.  

She brought him the sandwich again and it tasted as delicious as it did the last time.

Jemma. He remembers her smile and her sparkling eyes. The way she wiped a starnd of her hair out of her forehead. Her lively way to talk in her bright voice. He likes her. When he thinks of her, there’s a warm glowing inside his chest. It’s timid, but it’s noticeable. A sharp contrast against the coldness and numbness holding his heart in tight clutches most of the time.  

He thinks about her some more and doesn’t know how much time passes, before he notices his skin is all soft and wrinkly, and dense steam is surrounding him.

He reluctantly switches the water off and carefully steps out of the shower while supporting himself on the wall. He did slip once and hit his head so hard, it started bleeding. Which led to awkward questions because his therapist, Doctor Randall, seems convinced that Fitz is still suicidal and needs to be monitored closer, which Fitz doesn’t want to happen, because it’s bloody annoying and humiliating to have someone watch him at every step. He’s not going to let this happen again.

Fitz doesn’t like Doctor Randall. The therapist talks to him like he’s stupid. He could have asked to see someone else, but he doesn’t feel like it matters. He already had a change, because the former therapist gave up on him (They didn’t say that to him, but he figured it out. It wasn’t hard.).  The appointments now follow the same pattern like the others did. Doctor Randall talks and Fitz doesn’t. Instead, he stares at the fish in the aquarium that’s standing in a corner of the office, and waits until his fifty minutes are over, while the therapist tells him over and over again, how important it is for his recovery, that he finally _starts_ to talk.

Fitz shoves the unpleasant thoughts about the annoying therapist aside and tries to concentrate on the difficult task of drying his hair and combing the knots out of them. It takes a lot of energy and usually, his hands start to tremble so strong during the procedure, he drops the brush at least twice. But today, it goes quite well. He doesn't drop the brush even once and he actually feels a hint of proudness.

However, that feeling fades again when he struggles to close the buttons on his blue shirt. He picked it, because he likes the fabric and because he thinks he looks fairly well in it. Better than in a jumper. But the buttons are small. It takes agonizingly long to push every single one through the holes. By the time he finishes, he has irritated his lip with his teeth to the point he tastes copper. And when he checks himself in the mirror, he realizes he forgot a button and put one through the wrong hole. Fitz groans and closes his eyes for a moment, as a wave of anger rushes through him. Bloody shirt. Bloody buttons. Bloody shaking hands. Bloody stupid broken brain. Bloody _him._

He slams a fist against the wall without really noticing and flinches at the sudden pain. Dammit.

He hears the door to his room opening. “Fitz?”

Mack.

Fitz looks at the buttons and sighs. He can’t do this again. His right hand trembles too much by now and his left one throbs in angry pain. And it’s Mack. Mack is alright. He wouldn’t ask someone else.

He leaves the bathroom on weak legs and clumsily makes his way to the bed, not looking at Mack until he can sit on the edge. The mattress is soft. He thinks of falling asleep again. But no, he can’t. Not now. What if Jemma waits on that bench and he doesn’t appear again? She would be upset. She certainly was upset yesterday too … Why is he so bloody useless?

“You’re alright, Fitz?” Mack asks him.

Fitz sighs and forces himself to look up and point at his shirt with his shaking right hand. Mack reacts almost immediately. It's not the first time after all. He steps closer, bends forward and reaches for the buttons, looking at Fitz with raised eyebrows. “Okay?”

Fitz nods and Mack goes to work, getting the buttons out and into their right hole in only one or two minutes. “It’s good to see you up,” he tells Fitz calmly. “You took a shower?”

Fitz shrugs. Mack hums and finishes the last button, straightening up again. “There you go. You want to go outside?”

Outside. Fitz throws a glance out of the window and sees that it stopped raining. The sky is blue, but there are a few clouds. Outside. Jemma is waiting for him. _Maybe_. He nods and Mack smiles, handing him the crutches leaning beside the bed. “Good. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

  
Mack advised him to put on a jacket and Fitz is actually grateful for that. It’s quite fresh outside, the smell of the rain still lingering in the air. The cherry tree has wept a lot today. Wet pink and white petals are covering the ground around the bench and Fitz’s feet.

Fitz runs his fingers over the wooden surface. He likes to feel the cool smoothness and the occasional little notches under his skin. He discovers a ladybug sitting on the backrest and watches it for a while.

An unknown amount of time passes. People walk past. A young man pushes a little girl in a wheelchair. She’s eating ice cream, one of her arms resting in a thick white cast. An elderly woman leans heavily on her walker, while taking one slow but determined step after the other.

Time passes. The sun disappears behind a grey cloud.

Fitz bites his lip nervously. Jemma isn’t coming. Maybe she’s late, he tells himself. No, a well-known spiteful voice inside his mind persists. She isn’t coming.

But why?

There is one possibility, that seems realistic but painful. Maybe she’s simply done with her internship. And if that’s the case, what reason would there be for her to still come to the bench to see him? His stomach drops.

After a while, it starts to rain again. The drops are thick and heavy. They are cold. Fitz shudders, when they start running down his neck. She’s definitely not coming. He watches the people running past towards the building laughing, and feels numb. She isn’t coming. She’s gone.

He flinches, when Mack appears in front of him, with an umbrella. He holds it above Fitz’s head. “It’s time to go inside, Turbo. You’re going to catch yourself a cold.”

Fitz chews on his lip. He pulls out the notepad he brought to be able to “talk” to Jemma.  He scribbles a single word on a blank space and shows it to Mack.

_Jemma?_

Mack rubs his neck. “I don’t know, Turbo. I haven’t seen her today.”

Fitz lowers his head. So, it’s true. Jemma’s internship is over, and she’s gone back to her ordinary life which doesn’t involve a broken patient in a mental ward. What did he expect? He’s just a someone. A stranger who had needed her help. Now he’s  just one of her memories. And who knows, how long this memory is going to stay inside her mind? Maybe she’s already forgotten him. The thought hurts. It shouldn’t, but it does.

Mack lays his hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “Hey. I can ask for her later, alright? There has to be a reason she isn’t here today. I’m sure she would have said goodbye if her internship was over.”

That’s a point. At least she would have said goodbye to _Mack_ , right?

Still. He can’t gather enough hope to fight off the heavy emptiness that starts to fill every cell of his mind. He chews on his lip and restlessly picks on the sleeve of his shirt.

Mack looks at him thoughtfully. “You really like Jemma, don’t you?” He asks softly.

Fitz narrows his eyes. He likes her, yes. But it doesn’t matter. She’s gone and he has been stupid for thinking – or hoping? – they might be something like … like friends. He has felt strangely drawn towards her and when she was around, he felt better. He felt like there was more inside him than he could perceive right now. But it meant nothing.

He remembers the one time in school, he thought he was making a friend. It was another boy; his name was George. He was smart and popular, and Fitz didn’t understand at first, why George even made the effort to talk to him.

Fitz was quiet and withdrawn, sitting in a corner of the room. He has been bullied for various things. For his worn-out clothes – when he was still living with Alistair it wasn’t unusual, he had holes in his shoes – for his quirks, like the habit of flapping his hands when he was irritated to calm himself down, or his obsession for monkeys. He could never stop talking about them and apparently, that was _funny._

He had little to no contact to his classmates. But someday, George talked to him, called monkeys cool and asked Fitz if he wanted to play hide and seek with him and the other boys. Fitz was surprised but also excited in a way that made him feel giddy. He found a perfect hiding place and thought that maybe, if he’d win, they would like him even more. But time passed, and no one came. Fitz started to get tired. He thought, that maybe he hid himself too good … But he couldn’t come out. That wasn’t how the game worked! So he stayed in his hiding place, a container where they threw the dirty painting aprons in, and eventually fell asleep.

The janitor found him, waking him up and shaking his head when Fitz told him about the hide and seek game. “It’s almost evening, son,” the janitor said. “There’s no one here.”

That was, when Fitz realized he had been tricked. It hurt. A lot. He went home, fighting back tears. His father didn’t even notice he was gone, as usual. Fitz threw himself on his bed and cried until the pillow felt wet and disgusting.

The other day, George and the boys laughed at him. Fitz did his best to ignore them and sat in his usual corner, staring at the table, on which someone scribbled _Freak_ in crooked big letters.

He would never forget this betrayal. He has never really made friends since then and was careful about people in general. 

Jemma is just another person who entered his life and disappeared without a word. He will have to accept this.

 

* * *

 

  
The next day starts with a migraine and Fitz stays in bed, pressing the cooling pads Mack brought him against his aching head. It’s raining again. Thunder rolls in the distance. It’s like the weather is reflecting his current state …

Fitz wants to fall asleep again. He almost succeeds, when Mack suddenly comes into the room, a serious expression on his face. He sits on the chair beside Fitz’s bed and clears his throat. “I know about Jemma …”

Fitz perks up and looks at Mack frowning.

Mack sighs. “Jemma had an accident, Turbo. A car hit her when she was crossing the street in the dark. It was a … a hit and run accident.”

Fitz freezes. His stomach drops and a shiver runs over his spine. No. An accident. A car accident. No …

He feels his throat tighten as a bunch of memories rises to the surface of his mind. Headlights approaching in terrifying speed, tires screeching, a loud crash … darkness. He shakes his head and exhales shakily. No … Jemma. Is she … God, what if she’s …

Fitz almost starts to hyperventilate, but Mack lays both hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Turbo, look at me. She’s going to be alright. From what I’ve heard, she’s not gravely injured. There are a few broken bones, but it’s nothing life-threatening.”

Fitz inhales deeply. Relief rushes through him. Jemma isn’t dead. And most importantly, she won’t go through anything he did. She doesn’t deserve that.

Oh God. She must be confused and in pain and …

Fitz hurries to get his notepad and scribbles: _I want to see her. Please._

Mack smiles at him. “Of course, Fitz. Of course.”

 

* * *

 

 _  
_ Jemma looks small in the loose light blue hospital gown. It’s baggy on her slim body. There’s a bandage around her head. Her right leg is in a thick cast.

The Tv in the room is running. But Jemma doesn’t look at the screen. Her eyes are staring ahead into the void. She’s worrying her lip.

Fitz hesitates, lingering at the doorframe. He clears his throat and Jemma perks up. When she sees him, her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Fitz,” she says, the corners of her mouth twisting up into a vague smile. “Please come in.” Her voice sounds somehow … blank.

Fitz steps into the room and leans his crutches against the wall. He sinks onto the chair in front of Jemma’s bed and nervously rubs his knee.

Jemma switches off the television with a sigh. “I had an accident,” she tells Fitz, still in that blank voice. Her fingers are running over the cast on her right arm slowly, restlessly. “It’s nothing too serious. Fortunately.” She smiles, but it looks hollow. Fitz frowns. He doesn’t like how her voice sounds. Is she still in shock?

Jemma licks her lips that look chapped and dry and continues talking. “The doctor said I was lucky. The car managed to slow down before it hit me. But the driver did disappear, and I guess the police is going to interview me sometime.” She runs a hand over her bandaged head. “I hit my head pretty hard so there’s concussion. That’s why I feel so dizzy, I guess. My right leg is broken. A few ribs are bruised. Fortunately, there isn’t any inner bleeding and they say I can make a full recovery.” She rattles the information off with an almost mechanic voice, that alarms Fitz even more.

He pulls out his notepad and thinks a moment, before he writes: _You ok?_

Jemma nods curtly. “Yes, yes. I’m feeling quite fit, actually. I wanted to leave this morning. Go home because I need my books and notes to study. But … they don’t want me to leave. They say moving is not an option right now.” She snorts. “Can you believe they want me to use a _bedpan_?!”

Fitz’s lips twitch at how offended she sounds. He raises an eyebrow. A bedpan isn't even the worst thing. He had a catheter for at least a week.

Jemma sighs. “Ridiculous, right. No, I'm alright, really. I’m perfectly fine. I’m …” The next moment, her smile fades. Her eyes well up and she starts to tremble. “I’m fine,” she breathes. It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

Fitz bites his lip. He writes: _If you need someone to talk. You can talk to me._

Jemma looks at him surprised. “Really?”

_Really. Would return the favour._

Jemma inhales deeply. And then, the words burst out of her in a rush. “I think I’m not fine, Fitz. Not at all. You see, there’s an important exam in only three days. Three! I’m not at least prepared. I need to study more. I need to take this exam. I can’t fail! But now, I’m laying in this bloody hospital bed, I haven’t been in hospital since I was a little child and had to get my tonsils out. I hate it. I hate the poking and the syringes and the food and … And my body hurts! I can’t believe I was hit by a car. By a _car_! Oh God, I’m a total mess. I don’t want this to be real …”

She falls silent, seeming almost shocked about her revelations.

Fitz waits patiently. He senses she’s not done yet.

“I feel like a failure,” Jemma eventually murmurs and grimaces. “And then I feel bad for feeling like this because … because there are people with real issues and I’m – there’s nothing I have to worry about, I’m not even gravely injured, I was lucky! But … but look at me. Here I am, whining about the possibility I could not get another straight A in a test. And meanwhile … meanwhile … there are people who, well …”

 _People like me_ , Fitz thinks. But he isn’t mad. He gets it. Jemma is confused because this is not what she’s used to. Her world has been overthrown and now she’s treading water in an ocean of wrongness. He knows how that feels. Knows how it is to be ripped out of a life and put into another. It happened to him twice already.  

He thinks for a moment, chewing on his lip. He starts to write.

_You don’t have to feel bad or guilty. Your feelings are valid. We could always say someone has it worse. But that doesn’t change things for you. Doesn’t make them better. Something bad happened to you and now you have to deal with it._

When Jemma reads his words, her eyes well up once again. This time, she can’t choke back the tears. They burst out of her. She hides her face in both hands and her body shakes.

Fitz blinks. He looks at her and anxiously flaps his hand near his chest. He feels like he has to comfort her. Maybe he should hug her. Does she like to be hugged?

He himself has never particularly liked to be touched. It’s overwhelming his senses. But it’s alright when it’s someone close to him. Someone like Coulson. Coulson hugged him a lot in the past. He hugged Fitz when he cried after he tripped or hit his head somewhere. He hugged him when he came home from school with some new memories of bullying. He still hugs him when they meet and say goodbye.  

Mack is ok.

And Jemma hugging him didn’t feel bad either.

Fitz decides to try it. He leans forward and carefully lays an arm around Jemma’s shoulder. She twitches and he almost pulls back, but then she leans into his touch and he closes his arms around her, feeling her warm face against his chest. He awkwardly strokes her back and waits for the tears to die down.

Eventually, Jemma sniffs and backs away, smiling at him. “I’m sorry for … well. For this. You’re very kind. Thank you for helping.”

Fitz stares at her incredulously. Did she just say he _helped_? He can’t believe he helped someone. He’s the one needing help pretty much the entire day after all. 

Jemma rubs her eyes and sighs. “This is … a lot. I guess I will need some time to process. But I don’t know if I can stay here. I feel horrible, laying in bed all day.”

Fitz chews on his lip. It seems like Jemma is still underestimating the situation. She won’t be able to just walk out of the hospital. These kinds of injuries need time to heal. Not to mention recovery … She will have to do physical therapy. He’s been there, done that.

Still, he reminds himself, she could go home and only come here for therapy. There’s nothing holding her here, only the advice of the doctors. Theoretically, she is able to leave anytime. Unlike him. He’s surprised when, for the first time in a long time, he feels a hint of pain at the thought of not being able to leave. To go wherever he wants.

He’s like one of the monkeys, living in a zoo instead in the jungle. Trapped inside a cage, not being able to evolve. He’s been at the zoo with Coulson once, and when he’s seen the gorilla sitting behind thick glass, picking at some long branch, shoving leaves inside its mouth and chewing on them lazily, its eyes staring at the kids clapping their hands against the glass blankly, he felt a new kind of sadness. Because he realized what this gorilla wouldn’t experience. The depths of the jungle, the rain showers and the noises of other animals … That should have been its real world, not this limited artificial exhibit. Sure, conditions for the animals have improved over the years and in the zoo,  the gorilla won’t have to face the dangers of wildfires, poachers or deforestation – but wasn’t it horrible, that such things even existed? He got so upset about it he started to cry, and Coulson had hugged him close, asking concerned questions, but Fitz couldn’t really tell him, what the matter was. He has never been good at articulating his complex thought processes to other people. It got better with the time, but back then, he could only beg his new father to go back home. Which they did.

Now he’s caged in a way too, living in an artificial world that’s built to fix him and protect him from the self-destructive thoughts he’s had since he’s woken up from a coma and realized everything has changed. He has accepted this life, because it didn’t seem like there was a reason to fight it. He was damaged, broken, useless. That was, what his mind told him – sometimes in a terrifyingly accurate imitation of his father’s drunken voice – day for day. But Coulson told him otherwise. And Mack did too. And the therapist, even when he didn’t even try to hide his frustration when he refused to talk to him and rather watched the fish in their aquarium, told him otherwise too sometimes. Still, he stays in his cage.

But, I could change this, he realizes. If I stopped accepting this, I could manage to walk out of here too.

It’s both a frightening and exciting thought. He’s been here for so long; he can’t even imagine living in the “outside world”. He has a little flat – or had it, at least. He isn’t sure if the rent is still being paid. Anyway, he can’t imagine living alone. But then he remembers that Coulson has always offered him the chance to go back to him and move into his old room. For how long he wants to. He wouldn’t even have to live alone. It’s actually quite a nice thought, living together with Coulson and Robin. 

Jemma blows her nose and Fitz flinches, realizing he has drifted off. He looks at Jemma and writes, _Sorry_.

She half-smiles at him. “Everything’s alright. You seemed lost in thought.”

Fitz nods. He adds some words: _Allow yourself to heal. Exams can be repeated. Your wellbeing is more important._

“I’m trying. Thank you.” She hesitates, biting her lip, before she adds, “Your wellbeing is important too, Fitz. Maybe … you can try to allow yourself to heal too.”

And Fitz wants to tell her that sometimes, on good days, when there are no dark, almost black clouds in his mind taking every little beam of light away, he thinks he can do it. That he feels strong enough to fight himself back up to the surface. But there’s always another day and it just takes a memory or a certain thought and he’s back drowning in the grey ocean of his depression. But all he can do is to lower his head because he’s not ready to talk and she isn’t supposed to see the frustration in his eyes. The bad thing is, when he looks at his hands, he remembers the long white ragged scar on his right wrist, hidden by the sleeve of his jumper. It reminds him of his incapability to get back on his feet again and he can feel the clouds coming back, as if they were driven by an unnoticeable breeze.

Jemma yawns and quickly holds her hand in front of her mouth. “Oh my. I’m really tired. I hope you don’t mind if I take a nap, Fitz.”

He shakes his head. Once again, he’s surprised at how much he likes it when she says his name. He would like to say hers too. Wishes he could feel it on his lips. He watches as her eyes close and her breaths even out. Her face relaxes, the little wrinkles of worry around her eyes disappear as well as the slight frown on her forehead. She looks peaceful now. Peaceful and … beautiful.

He discovers a bruise on her cheek when he takes a closer look at her face. It’s yellow-green and surely will turn violet soon. His insides twist when he thinks how confused she must have been, when she woke up in hospital. It’s so unfair. Someone so kind and smart and … and _good_ , doesn’t deserve to be hurt like this. Fitz groans when his stomach clenches painfully and he starts to feel sick. His eyes well up and he knows it’s his inability to balance his emotions hitting in with full force. He has always been too emphatic, not able to entirely distance himself from bad happenings, getting sad about other people being hurt, but now it’s so overwhelming he has to bend over in his chair and clutches at his aching belly.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there like this, until Mack enters the room and lays a hand on his shoulder until the storm is over. “You should go back to your room,” Mack tells him, handing him the crutches. "It's late." 

Fitz nods absently. He throws a last glance at Jemma and limps out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Fitz looks at himself in the mirror in the bathroom and narrows his eyes. Jemma’s right. They both need to try to allow themselves to heal. Jemma needs to be kinder to herself. Fitz needs to … he needs to stop being his own enemy. He has to climb over the wall he built in his mind.

He clings to the sink and grits his teeth. He should start with ending the silence. He knows it’s going to be horrible. The aphasia will make him stutter and use the wrong words. But trying to talk is more than not talking at all.

He opens his mouth and tries to utter the first word that comes to his mind. Two syllables.

“J … Je, Je, Jemma.”

It’s the first word he said in weeks. He clears his throat which feels incredibly dry.

“Je-Je-Jem, ma. Jem – Jemma,” he repeats quietly, feeling … proud. Glad. Relieved? He can do this. He whispers Jemma’s name a few times more, until it feels familiar in a special way.


	5. Jemma / Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for verbal and physical past child abuse.

[Jemma]

 

Jemma is bored out of her mind.

She stares at the TV screen, where some tiny turtle babies are trying to get from a beautiful white beach to the calm turquoise sea which seems miles away from them. It is one of these dramatic animal documentations on BBC, portraying the very real tragedies of nature. Just as Jemma decides to switch the tv off again, a huge seagull arrives on the stage. She is glad when the screen goes black, because she really doesn’t wish to see baby turtles being devoured by a seagull while sad music is playing right now.

Jemma sighs and rubs her face. Outside, it starts to rain. The sky is grey velvet. It seems to reflect her mood. She still can’t believe this is really happening. She was hit by a bloody car.

When Jemma thinks of the accident, there are only blurry mosaics of colours and vague sensations. She still remembers the headlights. A bright blinding light approaching her fast. Too fast. She also remembers the screeching of the tires, that made her freeze. She remembers staring up at the stars, feeling heavy and light at the same time, before darkness crept into her vision from all sides.

Later she was moving without really moving, blinding white neon lights flashing above her and voices echoing around her. She couldn’t make out any coherent words. Something heavy was put on her face, and her eyes slipped close as she succumbed to an overwhelming tiredness.

Next thing, she woke up in this bed, unable to move, hoping she could be dreaming. But she pinched the back of her hand a few times and she didn’t wake up. Now she is kind of trapped in this room with her jumbled desperate thoughts. She almost wishes the bed beside hers wouldn’t be empty. Another patient at least would distract her from herself.

Jemma groans, when the skin of her arm starts to feel hot under the cast again. She can’t get used to the plaster. Her skin feels irritated and itchy. She desperately wants to scratch, but the cast is in her way. She can only endure it. Bloody hell. She wants it _off_. Also, she can’t stand laying in bed all the time. She’s doing nothing. And it agonizes her. She can’t even fall asleep. A part of her worries that she’s going to dream about the accident again. She did last night and woke up, bathed in sweat. She guesses she could ask for something to sleep, for some kind of pills, but she doesn’t really want to. So she has to stay awake, with her worrisome thoughts being the only company.

Distraction is rare. Later some of the people she has been working with over the last few weeks visit her, telling her to get better soon. Rebecca, the art therapist, brings her an entire basket filled with muffins. It is nice to know, that people care about her after all. But when she eats the muffins, Jemma fears that not only will she leave this bed with an unpleasant rash, she will also have gained weight. The hospital food isn’t exactly healthy. Which is a paradox, really.

Jemma’s relentless thoughts drift back to the exam and she feels desperate. She knows she promised herself - and Fitz - to allow her body to heal, but … she could at least study a tiny bit, right? She just needs her books … After some hesitance, she decides to call Milton. He sounds sleepy when he picks up – finally, after three trials – and Jemma guesses he played his stupid online game the whole night.

“Jemma? What …”

“I had an accident,” she tells him soberly. “A car accident.”

“Wha – an accident? Where are you?” Milton asks, sounding a bit more alert.

“In the hospital.”

“Oh.”

Yes. _Oh_ , Jemma thinks sourly. “Listen. I need my books. You have to get them to me.”

After a short pause, Milton hesitantly replies, “Uh. Alright. But you do realize that I can’t carry fifty books, right?”

Jemma sighs and presses a thumb into her throbbing temple. “Grab a pencil. I’m telling you which books I want.”

“Okay.”

  
Milton arrives an unbearable hours later, dressed in a white shirt that says “Blink if you want me” in huge red letters.

Jemma rolls her eyes.

“Hey Jemma,” Milton says. He looks paler than usual. His movements are slightly sluggish. Yup. Definitely played the whole night, she notes with hint of mean satisfaction. 

Milton glances at the cast around her leg and scratches the back of his head. “Oh ouch. You want me to write my name on it?” His lips twist into a half-smile.

“No thanks,” Jemma mumbles. Milton’s been here only for five minutes and she already wants him gone.  

Milton shrugs. “Well. Could have been much worse, right? You’re  just getting a few days of bedrest. It’s like vacation. I mean, you could have ended up in a wheelchair. Or with brain damage. Imagine, _you_ of all people wouldn’t be able to spell your own name. Wouldn’t that be hilarious.” He actually _chuckles_ and Jemma feels a hot wave of anger and repulsion rushing through her. He really is the worst. She glares at Milton and lays all the anger she has into her voice as she tells him, “Shut up, Milton. There’s nothing funny about brain damage.”

Milton frowns and his smile fades. “Relax. God, Jemma. You don’t have to take everything so serious, you know.”

“The books,” Jemma says coldly.

Milton sighs and rolls his eyes. He drops the bag with the books on the chair beside the bed. Jemma reaches for it immediately, pulling out a book with a sigh of immense relief. She opens it on one of the pages she marked with a coloured sticky note and starts to read.

“Well,” Milton says, “I guess I’m off then. You’re welcome. Get better soon, Jemma.”

Jemma waves him a distracted goodbye.  
 

It continues raining and time passes but at least it doesn’t feel like she is wasting it entirely. Sometimes, she takes a break, reaching over to fetch the water bottle from her nightstand. From outside, she can hear the typical noises of a busy hospital ward. Quick steps are passing by her room, hushed voices float through the space. Somewhere, a child is crying.  

Eventually, a Doctor comes in to check on Jemma. She is tall and blond and introduces herself as Doctor Barbara Morse. She has a nice voice, firm and warm at the same time.  

She pokes at Jemma for a while, asking her questions about how she’s feeling, if there is any pain and lectures her about the next steps to recovery. Jemma’s stomach drops, when the doctor tells her she won’t be able to get out of bed for a whole week. The Doctor adds in a emphatic voice that rest is the most important thing now. No stress.  
Jemma almost laughs at that. No stress … She is always stressed. And the worst is, she produces most of the stress all by herself …

When Doctor Morse scribbles something on her patient chart, Jemma feels her eyes welling up. Oh crap … She tries to supress the tears, but it’s in vain. She starts to sob in front of the Doctor and feels pathetic.

Doctor Morse doesn’t seem to be much surprised. She lays a gentle hand on Jemma’s heaving shoulder, offering silent comfort, until the worst is over.

When the tears are about to dry on her face, Jemma blows her nose and sniffs. “I’m so sorry, I’m just … I can’t stand this. I don’t have the time for all of this, you know. I’m almost at the end of the semester and I have an important exam I’m apparently not going to attend and I’m … I’m scared. I mean, I’m a good student and I guess it won’t hurt me to repeat the exam, but still … I just can’t shake off the feeling I’m wasting my precious time here, doing nothing! And I’m trying. I’m really trying to see it different. To be kinder to myself and to allow my body to heal, but … I can’t stop myself from worrying. So, I guess, it’s going to be very hard to stick to your no stress order.” Jemma sighs and lowers her head.  

Doctor Morse hums. “In all honesty, I think you should talk to someone. There is a lot you need to process after this accident.”

“Well … There’s someone I’ve been talking to yesterday.” Jemma smiles. “I think he is …  a friend. Yes.” Fitz _is_ a friend, right? They helped each other and shared food and thoughts. She very much wants to think of Fitz as her friend. She doesn’t really have one, after all. Susan is great, but when Jemma talks to her, it doesn’t feel like they’re on the same level. And Milton … no. Absolutely not.  

Fitz is different. Being around him almost feels like they have known each other for much longer. He feels familiar already. And she may have a little crush on him, she carefully admits to herself.

Doctor Morse smiles at her. “That’s good. But I still think you should talk to someone professional too. What you went through is a traumatic experience, Jemma. If you bottle it up, you could develop a Posttraumatic Stress Disorder later.”

“Oh. Uh. I don’t think it was that traumatic for me,” Jemma says evasively.

“Do you have nightmares about it?”

“Uh. Yes …”

“Occasional flashbacks?”

Jemma nods and sighs. Okay. Maybe it was traumatic. She just doesn’t want to be a bother … After all, there are so many people who need help much more than her. Oh. That’s probably a wrong thought again. She immediately feels guilty. And then she feels guilty for feeling guilty. Wow. She really is a mess. “Maybe I should talk to someone professional after all,” she murmurs in defeat.

Doctor Morse smiles at her. “I’ll sent someone to you. It is normal to feel a bit lost after being ripped out of your daily routine, Jemma. It is okay to not be okay and, most of all, it is okay to seek help. Better sooner than later."

"Okay. Thank you," Jemma says quietly.

* * *

 

When Jemma is having lunch later, sceptically shoving the slightly mushy peas around on her plate, there is a light knock on the doorframe. She looks up and sees Fitz standing there. Jemma smiles at him, the joy to see him a pleasant fluttering in her stomach. “Hey.”

Fitz inhales deeply. He grabs his right hand with the left and frowns. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard. Jemma waits patiently. She looks him up and down. He looks … good. Much better than the days before. Less dishevelled and more alert. He’s wearing the blue shirt again. It looks good on him. It brings out the blue of his eyes in a stunning way and she likes how his hair curls at the ends.

She definitely finds him attractive. _But_ , she reminds herself with another pang of guilt, _he is a patient_. _\- So are you now_ , a voice in her head says and reality comes back, hitting her with full force. 

She asks herself what exactly she should make out of this bit of information, when Fitz opens his mouth and utters the first words Jemma has ever heard from him. “He-Hello Je-Jemma. Hello Jemma.” He sighs deeply and it sounds relieved.

Jemma's breath falters. Her eyes go wide. She has just heard Fitz’s voice. He has said her name. Twice.

“Hello Fitz,” she says. “Do you want to come in?”

He nods and sits on the chair beside her bed, starting to play with his fingers nervously. He opens his mouth again, but then looks kind of desperate and pulls out his notepad, scribbling something on it. _It’s aphasia. Because of the brain damage. It’s all jumbled up there, sometimes._

Jemma nods. “I know aphasia. And I know that it gets better, if you do a lot of practise. Fitz, you can talk to me, you know? You can practise with me. You don’t need to be nervous about stuttering or forgetting a word, just talk to me.” She smiles at him encouragingly.

Fitz’s eyes switch over her face. It seems like he's searching for something. What he finds seems to reassure him. The desperate expression vanishes from his eyes. He opens his mouth and talks again, rubbing his hand over his knee restlessly. “It’s … it’s still d-d-d, uh, it’s hard.”

Jemma nods. “I can imagine. But hey, here you are and you’re trying. That’s not nothing, right?”

A timid smile tucks at the corners of Fitz’s mouth and Jemma thinks she very much would like to see it. His smile. A true happy smile.

They share a moment of silence that feels not at all uncomfortable. Eventually, Fitz asks, “How a-a-are you?”

Jemma shrugs. “Well. Not too bad, I guess. My skin is itching under these horrible casts, but my head feels a lot better already. Also I got some of my books and can finally do something, instead of just laying here, staring at the walls.”

Fitz looks at the book laying on the nightstand curiously. “Can I ...?”

“Sure.”

He takes the book, running his fingers over the hardcover and turning the pages, reading some words from time to time.

She watches him, still amazed that she finally hears his voice. It fits to him. Well, of course it does, it is his voice, but still. It is warm and gentle, and his slight Scottish accent is quite something.

 _It hit you hard Jemma_ , the voice in her head tells her dryly.

 _No it didn’t_ , she thinks. _I just … I like him. Maybe I have a little crush on him, but … it is nothing world-shaking. No._

Fitz lays the book back, a strange lost expression in his eyes. He looks at her and clears his throat. “Sorry. I … I …” He frowns and sighs, grabbing his notepad again. _Too exhausted to talk now. I got to get back to my room. I sneaked out of the ward. Can’t have Mack notice it._

Jemma raises an eyebrow. “Oh Fitz,” she says. “You shouldn’t do this.”

He shrugs _. I wanted to see you_ , he scribbles hastily, averting his gaze and gulping.

“Oh.” Jemma watches puzzled, as Fitz’s cheeks turn a faint pink.

“Well, I’m glad you were here. I liked to hear your voice,” she tells him, hoping that doesn’t sound strange. It does to her. A bit. It's her turn to blush a little. “Goodnight, Fitz.”

Fitz gets up slowly. “Good-goodnight, Je-Jemma."

He leaves and she looks after him, feeling like her heart is jumping a few excited loops inside her chest.

 _I heard his voice. He said my name. I heard his voice. And I like it. I like to hear him saying my name_ , she realizes and smiles to herself.

After a moment, Jemma asks herself what she’s going to do now. She feels agitated. Not in a state to concentrate on the complex topics of her book.

She decides to finally call her parents. She was dreading the moment but they should know what happened.

Jemma expected them to be shocked, worried and she isn’t too surprised when her mother starts crying. What she doesn’t expect at all, is that they tell her to come home.

 

* * *

 

 

[Fitz]

  
Patience.

Everyone tells him patience is the key to recovery.

And Fitz tries. He really tries to be patient. But it’s good damn hard.

Right now, he tries to keep himself from smashing his fist into the wall in frustration. He’s sitting in the office of his speech therapist Doctor Martin for the first time since he decided to stop talking and it goes slow. Too slow. Everything’s going too bloody slow.

He stares at the card in his hand, on which a sentence is written he is supposed to talk out loud and tries to find the right syllable, only his head doesn’t seem to want to cooperate anymore. He’s exhausted and the tremor in his hand gets worse too. He tries to hide it, but eventually, Doctor Martin shakes her head and takes the card from him. “It’s enough for today, Fitz. You should rest. You made a lot of progress today.”

Progress? He stares at her incredulously. He managed almost _nothing_ today.  
  
She smiles at him, apparently sensing his confusion. “Think of where you started this journey, Fitz. From there to now you definitely made progress. But you have to give yourself more time. This won’t happen in a rush. It takes a lot of smaller steps to get you to your goal.”

 _Time_. Time is his enemy. Fitz can’t be sure tomorrow will be a “good” day too. Tomorrow, he could wake up with a migraine or with a depressive episode, hating himself to an extent where he doesn't want to be in his body anymore.

But he gives it up and returns to his room, falling into his bed completely exhausted. He doesn’t need sleeping pills this time.

***

Fitz is relieved when he wakes up without a headache or violent self-loathing.

He showers and asks Mack for a razor. He shaves and manages to not get angry about the fact, that Mack is staying and watching him. He feels too happy about the thought to see Jemma right after breakfast to get bad-tempered.  

After eating two eggs with toast – Mack watches him half surprised half relieved – he even attempts his therapy session. He thinks he would be able to start to talk to Doctor Randall now, but when he sits in the uncomfortable chair in front of the therapist’s desk, he just can’t. He’s still angry about how Randall is talking to him and he decides to not say a word. Maybe he should ask for another therapist after all, if he really wants to get better.

After the tedious session is over, he visits Jemma. This time, he actually asks Mack to let him leave the ward for it, feeling a bit guilty that he sneaked out the last day. Mack gladly obliges.

When Fitz enters her room, Jemma is playing with her phone nervously. She avoids Fitz’s eyes and he senses that she’s a bit sad. When he looks at her questioningly, she sighs. “My parents, uh, I phoned them and they want me to come home for a while. They think familiar surroundings will help my recovery.”

 _Oh_. His stomach drops. Fitz feels like he’s free-falling. He lowers his head, so she won’t see the desperate expression on his face.

_She’s leaving. She’s leaving somewhere I can’t follow._

Of course. Everything good always has an end. And most of the times, the end comes quick. Quick and with a loud crash.

“I told them I want to stay here,” Jemma says.

Fitz perks up. What?

Jemma shakes her head, a fond smile spreading on her face. “They tend to be a bit overprotective … I’m a grown-up girl now. My life is here. And … I rather like our routine. I like that you’re coming here and we’re talking. I feel like we’re helping each other. I hope so, at least?”

Fitz nods quickly. He thinks Jemma can’t even imagine how much she is helping him.

She smiles at him. Fitz loves her smile. It is like a sunbeam reaching his heart and making it flutter.

He’s glad when Jemma starts to talk, and he can listen.     
He learns a few new things about her. She’s from Ashburton. Her parents are both teachers at primary school. She had a dog once, but it had to be put down because of a serious illness and she never really recovered from this loss.

Fitz loves every new little detail about Jemma. He would gladly listen to her the whole time. But she asks him questions too from time to time.  

He does his best to answer them in words, but sometimes he still uses his notepad. Short sentences are not a great problem by now. But more complex thoughts are difficult to express and take him a lot of time. Jemma always waits patiently, with that little smile on her face he likes so much.

One of her questions is especially hard to answer and makes him feel a bit uncomfortable. “What are you going to do, after you’re … you know, discharged?”

Fitz swallows. There it is again. The thought that this part of his life is going to come to an end at a point in the future he can’t see right now. That he will have to decide what to do. He shakes his head and writes _I don’t know when or if I’m going to leave the clinic._

“But you want to?” Jemma asks carefully.

Fitz shrugs. _Maybe. Eventually. I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to do,_ he writes. It's the truth. _  
_

“You could continue your studies,” Jemma suggests and Fitz is reminded of Coulson, who said the same.

Continue his studies … Right now, he can’t even imagine taking a step outside without being watched or told what to do, so he doesn’t want to think further. He shakes his head and maybe Jemma notices the conflict inside him, because she changes the topic.

Fitz listens to her voice and thinks, that actually everything is quite nice right now.

  
Of course, he has to ruin it soon after.  

 

* * *

 

  
Fitz listens to the rain beating against the windows of the little art room and tips the end of his brush against his chin.

He looks at the blank canvas in front of him and waits for his mind to decide what to paint. Most of the days, he simply starts, led by some spark of his imagination. Today is different. His thoughts start to drift off and he thinks of Jemma. He pictures her smile and suddenly knows that is it. The image he has to draw floats right in front of his eyes. It makes him smile absently.

Fitz starts with the outline of Jemma’s face and asks himself vaguely, if she would like it to see a portray of herself. She liked what he painted the last time. The lighthouse on the cliff. She said he is talented. He feels warmer all of a sudden.

While drawing, Fitz realizes he misses Jemma.

It’s kind of strange. He has just seen her. This morning. Yet, he wishes he could go back to her. Now.

He frowns at the sensation in his stomach, when he thinks about Jemma. It feels warm but also like something pulls at him. _Could it be, that I am in love with her?_ He asks himself. It sounds … ridiculous. He has never been in love with someone before. There were no past relationships and no dates. How does it even feel, to love someone?

He asked Coulson once. About love.

It was a rainy Sunday and they were searching for good universities offering engineering studies on Coulson’s computer.

Fitz had been a bit distracted, lost in his thoughts. In school, their English teacher wanted them to write a love poem and Fitz didn’t know what to write. He wasn’t bad at writing, usually. He liked to put his thoughts on paper. Talking was way more difficult. Written words could be crossed out. They could be changed countless times. But spoken words … they were fixed. The damage was done as soon they left one’s throat.  

So, the writing wasn’t the problem. But the topic was. Love. What was love? Undoubtedly, there were different kinds of love. He loved his mother and he loves Coulson. But he was quite certain his teacher wanted to hear about _romantic_ love.

He didn’t think he’d ever felt that for someone. There was a girl once, who had thrown him occasional glances. She seemed interested. But Fitz didn’t do anything that would indicate mutual interest, so she had stopped looking at him and instead started to talk to one of the rugby players.

Around Fitz, people were holding hands, hugging and kissing each other, talking about sex in a hushed tone. It seemed to be incredibly important. Like something you had to do before you counted as an adult. Fitz watched and started to ask himself if there was something wrong with him.

So in brief, when his teacher wanted to hear about love, Fitz didn’t know what to write. Lost in his complicated thoughts, he drew a rose on the paper and got told off by his teacher.

“You’re distracted today,” Coulson told him sometime, closing the tab he was looking at. “Is everything alright?”

Fitz hesitated. “How do you know you’re in love with someone?” He asked.

Coulson smiled. When he started talking, he looked like he was remembering something. Or someone? “You feel it. You never want to be without them. When they’re not around, you feel cold and you yearn for their warmth, for their smile and touch. They may make you laugh and cry, and sometimes there are dark clouds, thunderstorms even, but they will pass - and no matter what, it always feels _right_ to be with them.”

Fitz had rather liked this description of love. But he had never felt like this for anyone.

_Well … It feels right to be with Jemma. Very right._

It’s true. He feels better when he is around her. Less damaged and more like a person. Fitz looks at the canvas, where the image is slowly forming into contours and decides to draw Jemma’s eyes next. They are beautiful. Soft and warm and firm at the same time, sparkling in the sunlight.

Fitz looks at the colour plate, frowning when he realizes that there’s no colour that would get Jemma’s hazel eyes right.

He’s going to have to mix something.

He wants to wash his brush first and right when he reaches for the glass of water, his hand trembles violently. He knocks the glass over and it shatters on the floor. Someone nearby makes a startled noise. Fitz flinches and stares at the shards and the spreading water, a memory trying to rise to the surface of the ocean of jumbled pictures in his mind.

A long time ago, something similar happened … Colours, glass shards, water …

 

He was still Leo back then and he was drawing. He was drawing himself and his mother, standing on a beach while monkeys danced around them. He has been crying because this was the only way he could see his mother now … In his paintings and in his thoughts. And in his dreams. Her image was still there, but her presence was gone.

He was about to clean his brush when he bumped against the glass that was standing dangerously close at the edge of the table. It fell and shattered on the floor. Glass shards were flying everywhere, and the water quickly soaked the carpet. Leo stared and froze.

This wasn’t good. Not good at all. He has just shattered another glass only two days ago.

Leo quickly got up and tried to pick up the shards. They were sharp and he hissed when he felt a burning pain in his right hand. He had cut himself and now he was bleeding. This was even worse. He stared at his hand and tried to suppress the tears that wanted to come to the surface.

Before he was able to pick up more shards, his father stepped into the room, his whole posture radiating anger. “What did you do this time?” He growls. He discovers the glass shards covering the floor. “Another glass? Why are you so bloody clumsy, boy?

Leo made himself as small as he could and said, “I’m sorry.”

Sometimes, that was enough. But not today. His hand throbbed in pain and few tears escaped from the corners of his eyes, running over his face.

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Are you crying again? What did I tell you about tears?”

“They are for the weak,” Leo said, rubbing them away hastily. “I’m sorry, I …”

His words were cut off, when his father abruptly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him up, not minding Leo’s gasps for breath as he was dragged towards Alistair’s room, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

“Please,” he begged, not able to supress the sobs anymore. “Please father, I will do better, I promise. I will be good, I will be …”

“You have to learn your lesson, boy,” Alistair growled, throwing Leo on the bed and unbuckling his belt. “I didn’t raise a clumsy, whiny idiot. This will teach you to be a proper man better than anything.”

Leo was crying into the bedsheets, watching the bloody handprint he left on them. He wished his mother was still there. He wished …

The pain cut off his thoughts.

 

Fitz is lost in the flashback.

He doesn’t notice that he started to rock back and forth, or that he makes whimpering noises. The world is a blur and he can’t breathe. The pain is  unbearable. It’s phantom pain in his back mixed with real pain because he’s pulling at his own hair by now, his fingers clenched around a handful of curls tightly.

_I’m sorry … I’m so sorry …_

_It won’t happen again._

_It won’t -_

Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder and _shakes_.

Fitz startles and drops his brush. He lashes out blindly, hitting something – someone? – who backs away immediately. There’s a faint yell. It rips Fitz out of the clutches of the flashback violently and he gasps, suddenly realizing he’s on the floor – how did he get on the floor?! – kneeling between the glass shards. His breath quickens as the panic rises higher and higher.

“Fitz?” Rebecca is crouching in front of him, a concerned frown on her face. She knows better than to try to touch him. Instead, she tries to get his attention by waving a hand in front of his eyes.  

It works. A bit.

Fitz blinks and tries to focus as the flashback fades a bit more. He looks at Rebecca and sees a young nurse standing behind the art therapist, pressing a hand on her nose, shocked pain written on her face.

 _I hurt her._ Fitz realizes. He looks around and notices that everyone in the room is staring at him.

His anxiety rises to a whole new level and he curls into himself, whimpering.

He hears Rebecca saying something, but he can’t make out the words.  
  
He hurt someone.  
  
He shifts and his hand touches one of the larger glass shards. It cuts slightly into his skin and it burns faintly. He presses his hand against it firmer because – he deserves it. He deserves the pain because it’s punishment and next time he will do better. He will be good. He will -

There is a hand grabbing his wrist and a voice – loud, jarring, _too much_ – telling him to stop. He breaks away, moving back until his back hits the wall and draws his knees to his chest, hugging them firmly. He presses his face into the crook of his elbow and whimpers desperately. He wants to be gone, gone, _gone_.

“Everyone out,” says a new voice, firm and persistent. “Now.”

_Mack …_

“Fitz,” the nurse says, crouching in front of him. “Hey buddy, you are bleeding. Can I take a look at your hand?”

Fitz trembles, but Mack’s voice is soft and kind and it makes him realize what’s happening. He looks down at his bleeding hand with a numb feeling in his chest. He lost control. He hurt somebody and he hurt himself and he’s not better. He thought he is, but it was just an illusion. Everything’s pointless. He’s useless. 

Fitz sobs and goes limp, his body unfolding and shaking as he starts to cry.

“I’m going to touch you. Is that alright?” Mack asks from somewhere in front of him, his voice as blurry as the rest of the world.  

Fitz nods, pressing his unhurt hand over his eyes to hide the tears in an instinctive gesture. He’s weak. Why is he so weak …

Mack carefully takes his bleeding hand and cleans it with a disinfectant that burns distantly. He wraps a bandage around it and carefully lays his hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “Lets get you back to your room, alright?”

* * *

 

Fitz keeps his head low as Mack more or less carries him to his room. His legs are jelly and his whole body feels impossibly heavy.

When he finally can lay on his bed, he pulls the blanket up to his nose and turns around to face the wall instead of Mack. He feels utterly exhausted and pathetic.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mack says behind him.

Fitz shakes his head. He doesn’t even want to think about what happened.

Mack doesn’t say anything else and Fitz feels his eyes slipping shut. They are too heavy. He is too heavy. This new life is never going to change and he has enough. Why can’t he get out of this circle? It’s almost as if the universe doesn’t want him to get better.

Fitz closes his eyes firmly, willing himself to fall asleep.

The thoughts won’t stop torturing him, floating around in his mind like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. Eventually, he still dozes off out of sheer exhaustion, but is ripped out of the beginning sleep, when he hears voices nearby.

Mack and … Doctor Randall. _Of course._

The discussion sounds tense, as if they are arguing. Fitz acts like he’s still sleeping, his heart hammering as he listens to the two men. Doctor Randall sounds angry, while Mack’s voice has a determined undertone. “Nancy shouldn’t have touched him like this. She should have known better. I’m sorry, Doctor Randall, but I think Fitz’s behaviour is at least partly a result of a staff’s mistake …”

“Well, Mister Mackenzie, _I_ see this incident as further prove that he needs to be under closer monitoring. He hurts himself and he hurts others. He’s not stable enough for the open ward. He should be back in the psychiatric intensive care unit, where we can prevent such things from happening.”

Fitz grabs the blanket tightly as anxiety rises again. No. He doesn’t want to be back in intensive care. He doesn’t want to be watched every minute and he definitely doesn’t want to be unable to visit Jemma …  

When Mack answers, he sounds strained. “But there are stable things in his life right now, Doctor. Things that are helping him to develop a daily routine. Which is our goal here. Art therapy has been helpful. And there’s someone. A girl. Visiting her is helping his recovery immensely. He is socialising _and_ even started talking again. With all due respect, Doctor Randall, it wouldn’t be wise to move Fitz now. He’s on a good way. Of course, with everything he’s been through, there are occasional setbacks …”

“You call _this_ a setback? This was a manic episode. A stable patient should be able to snap out of a flashback and control his emotions. He is not sane …”

Fitz has heard enough. He jolts up, ignoring the sudden wave of dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. “I am not crazy!”

The two men look at him surprised. Mack frowns and his eyes fill with sad pain as he realizes Fitz has overheard the whole conversation.

“So, we’re talking now, eh?” Doctor Randall says, raising his eyebrows.

Fitz feels a violent rush of anger and repulsion. He grits his teeth and raises his chin. “Only t-t-to people who take m-m-me serious,” he says, his stutter intensifying because of his rage.

“Well, I’m not sure if you realize what happened. You didn’t only hurt a nurse, you hurt yourself. Which is alarming, giving the circumstances …”

“This was … it was an accident. I … I …” Fitz growls in frustration, willing the words to go back into right order. “Not going to, to happen again. I want to stay here.”

“You’re in no state to decide that for yourself,” Doctor Randall says coolly. “I think I have to remind you that you were sectioned for trying to kill yourself.

Fitz clenches his hand into a tight fist. It’s almost like he can feel the scar on his wrist burning. As if he could ever forget ... “I – I – I still have rights. I want to speak to your authorities. I’m ready to fight your decisions in front of a, a, a judge if necessary. And I want another therapist. I – I have enough of you treating me like I’m stu - stupid!”

Doctor Randall huffs. He looks surprised. After clearing his throat noisily, he says, “I see. Well. Additionally, to today’s … incident, I also will have to report that you’re continuing to be uncooperative. Maybe you should try to get some rest now. Goodnight.” He walks out of the room with quick firm steps.

Fitz looks after the doctor, breathing heavily, trying to get the overwhelming combination of emotions rushing through him under control.  

Mack sits on the chair beside his bed and sighs. “Don’t worry, he can’t just put you back into intensive care. Not against your will. He would have to step in front of a medical health judge. I don’t think he wants to take this that far.”

Fitz shakes his head. He stares at his bandaged hand. “May-maybe he’s right. Maybe I am d-da-danger – maybe I’m a danger to others.” _Maybe I will hurt people who I care about. Jemma …_

Mack shakes his head. “No, don’t think of it like that. You startled, Fitz. You were in the middle of a panic attack and this nurse shook you. What she did wasn’t professional, and your reaction was violent but fairly understandable. You didn’t want to hurt her. Doctor Randall will get that too.”

Fitz doesn’t share Mack’s optimism. So far doctor Randall has done nothing that would indicate he is willing to change something in his behaviour towards Fitz. And after Fitz’s outbreak, he maybe will try only harder to get what he wants.

Fitz sinks back into the pillows and rubs his hand nervously. “What if, if it will … what if I will never get b-b-better?”

Mack leans forward and looks at Fitz intensely. “You are already getting better, Fitz. Right now. Everyday. You already made a big step with starting to talk again. This was a setback. This happens in recovery. Nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks … they won’t just go away, Fitz. I know that’s frustrating. But you have to understand that this isn’t about forgetting everything. It is about learning how to deal with it and how to look into the future.”

“I can’t. Can’t see the future,” Fitz mumbles. He can see his traumatic past and the present he’s struggling it. But his future … it’s pretty blank.

“You will,” Mack tells him confidently. “Do you want something to sleep?”

Fitz just nods. He’s too exhausted to continue to talk and he wants the thoughts to shut up finally.  

 

The pills Mack brings him take some time to show their effect. Fitz lays awake in the darkening room for another 15 minutes and feels like crying. But even for that, he’s too exhausted. The exhaustion is joined by a feeling of self-loathing that isn’t all too unfamiliar to him. Feels like his depression is coming back with full force. Great.

He buries his face in the pillow. He really tries to see it like Mack, the speech therapist, Rebecca or Jemma. He tries to see this as a setback. As something that happens in everyone’s recovery. But he fails. It’s just too much. He still can feel the phantom pain in his back, where he knows the other scars are, and the memories are merciless, still trying to come back to the surface, where they will destroy another part of him that is still willing to fight all this for some reason.

Even if he might feel something for her, someone so pure and good and kind like Jemma wouldn’t want someone who is so … so deranged. Even if he might be in love with her, he could never bear it if she would have to deal with his countless issues constantly. He could hurt her too, like he hurt the nurse. Randall is right after all … He’s not sane. And it looks like he never will be.

Someone like her deserves someone better.  

Maybe it would be better to not see her anymore. Maybe she should have agreed to her parent’s invitation. Maybe … maybe he should do something that actually brings him back to the intensive care unit, into some secluded room where he can’t destroy anything – or hurt anyone.

Before he can think this more through, the pills finally work. They pull him into the relieving darkness of sleep, and he doesn’t fight it. He just hopes he won’t have to go through a nightmare again. He has faced enough of his demons today. 


	6. Coulson / Jemma / Fitz

[Coulson]

 

It’s a sunny Thursday, when Phil Coulson barely catches his bus after a short breathless sprint. He finds a seat quickly and sinks on it with a relieved sigh, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a tissue.

He's on his way to visit Fitz.

Coulson hopes it's a better day than last time, when Fitz was barely responsive, caught in the clutches of his anxiety and hauting memories. It's painful to see him like this.

The boy has been through so much in his life already ...

Coulson will never forget how he and Fitz met.

  
Many years ago, Maria Hill phoned him and asked him to take care for a foster child. A boy.

Coulson had been hesitant. He was about to edit his book, a tale about a secret agent and his group of younger agents who experienced a lot of strange adventures, involving superhuman alien elements.

“I don’t know, Maria. I didn’t want to take in a foster kid for another year. You know that.”

“It’s urgent,” Maria said. “He isn't talking to anyone. Not even to Nick. And he isn't eating. I don’t think it would help if we keep him here with all the other kids, he’s hiding inside a wardrobe, Phil.”

Coulson felt a familiar combination of emotions. Concern, anger, sadness. Why had these kids have to go through so much … They were supposed to explore the world, to learn to be creative, to play in the woods carelessly or build fantastic sandcastles. Instead they learned that the people they should be able to trust the most, aren’t trustworthy at all. And these experiences would shape them for forever.

He asked Maria to give him more background information and grew sadder with every word he heard. If felt like countless punches hitting the pit of his stomach. They had just taken the boy away from his father, an alcoholic who now hopefully faced a lot of time in prison. The amount of neglect the child was exposed to for years was shocking. He had been depraved of food, hadn’t been brought to a doctor for any vaccinations, didn’t get tooth care or new, better fitting clothes. He had been beaten and insulted. There were scars on his body and inside his mind. Scars that probably won’t ever fade.

Coulson’s heart broke a dozen times, but he said yes and went out to buy a few things. Packs of cereals the kid may like, shampoos and clothes.

When Maria arrived with the boy, Coulson was shocked about the state the kid was in.

He looked incredibly small. His clothes were baggy, and Coulson didn’t need to look under them to know that the child was malnourished. There was a cast around the boy’s left arm and a bruise on his right cheek, the colour a sick yellow. But the worst were his eyes. They were dull, staring off into the distance. He knew these eyes too well. They were the eyes of someone who has just gone through an overwhelming amount of trauma.

When Coulson crouched down to be on eye level with the boy, Maria introduced as Leo Fitz, and smiled at him, the child’s expression didn’t even change. Coulson knew instinctively that this was going to be painful and difficult.

The hardest thing of all was to gain Leo’s trust.

Every time Coulson moved to quickly, the Leo took cover under the table or hid inside a wardrobe, shaking and whimpering. Coulson didn’t try to get him out of hiding violently. Instead, he sat nearby in silence, hoping he could show Leo he wasn’t a threat. After a while, it was working. There were still flinches and tears and fearful apologizes, but they faded faster with every time.

They took small steps. But they were slowly bringing them on a right way. Eventually, Leo started to call him Dad. Carefully at first, but when Coulson didn’t react in a bad way, he kept doing it.

The first tentative smile warmed Coulson’s heart. He got it when he took Leo to the zoo and showed him the monkeys. That Leo loved monkeys was one of many important discoveries. Coulson also noticed how good Leo was with his hands. He could build incredible things with them. Lego spaceships for example. Whenever Coulson told him how great they looked, Leo gave him a half-smile that seemed both disbelieving and carefully proud.

When Leo told Coulson one day, that he didn’t want to be called Leo, or Leopold anymore, but Fitz instead, Coulson said sure. It was his name; he could do with it what he wanted. The school was less thrilled, but Coulson had a talk with the director, explaining to her the special circumstances, and that Fitz was very certainly connecting the name Leopold to unbearable memories of his father’s abuse. After that, they didn’t resist it anymore.

Coulson quickly realized Fitz was bright. Brighter than anyone else in his class. He was bored by most exercises and Coulson talked to the director again, asking her to let Fitz skip a class or two. It was better after that.

Fitz finished every class with the best grades. When he carefully thought about studying engineering, Coulson encouraged him and they found a university, where Fitz was the youngest student.

Life seemed to work out for Fitz much better now, and Coulson was happy about that.

 

He didn’t think everything would take such a sudden and violent turn soon.

 

When the accident happened, Coulson was sitting over his newest book. Writing has been gone easy that night. It was one of the magic moments when the words didn't need to be pulled out of his mind and instead came flying onto the paper. It was like smoothly riding a wave. But then the phone call came. The hospital. He was Fitz’s emergency contact.

A car accident, they told him and said something about “critical condition”.

Coulson rushed to the hospital immediately, learning that Fitz was in a coma and they didn’t know if or when he would wake up.

It hurt to see him like this. So lifeless. The boy has been through so much. He had to fight most of his life. He got back on his feet and now this. Coulson sat at his bed for many hours, talking to him, reading to him. He heard it would help comatose patients if someone was there, talking to them. He was everything Fitz had.  

Coulson was relieved, when Fitz woke up. But he was shattered about the consequences of the accident. There was brain damage and it was painful to see Fitz trying to talk, to see him breaking down when he realized he couldn’t. He held Fitz while he was sobbing, telling him they would get through this.

Coulson suffered with him, but he truly believed that Fitz would get back on his feet this time too. He told him this, over and over again. He didn’t know if Fitz believed him. And just a week later, when he was preparing to take another foster child in – a girl whose parents died – another phone call from the hospital reached him.

Learning about Fitz’s suicide attempt was the worst. He was frozen, couldn’t believe what he just heard. Ever since then, Fitz’s state of mind was fragile and Coulson wished he could do more, could make his demons quieter. He was trying.

  
The bus comes to a stop in front of the hospital and Coulson gets out, blinking into the bright sunlight.

It really is a beautiful day. Coulson hopes Fitz is outside in the park, but he doesn’t find him there.

Instead, Fitz is in his room, sitting on the bed and staring into the void.

Coulson guesses it hasn’t been a good day. He knocks lightly on the doorframe and smiles, when Fitz turns his head to look at him. “Hey, Fitz.”

“Hello, Dad,” Fitz murmurs, looking back at his hands that are folded in his lap.

Coulson blinks. He feels surprised in a good way. Fitz is talking again. It’s good to hear his voice. But he’s sad again, to see how thin he still is. Apparently, he’s still not eating properly.  

He sits on the chair beside the bed and clears his throat. “I’ve brought you something.” He rummages in his bag, pulling out a book. “Robin found it in a shop and thought you might like it.”

Fitz takes the book, the hint of a smile flitting over his face. It’s Jane Goodall’s My Life With The Chimpanzees. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So … How are things?”

Fitz chews on his lip and shrugs.  

“Did you see the girl again?” Coulson asks. He remembers seeing them sitting on the bench under the cherry tree …

“Jemma,” Fitz murmurs. “Her name. She is … she had an, an … uh … a car hit her.”

“Oh. I hope she’s alright?” Coulson asks, concerned.

“Hm. Broke her, her leg. But she’s out soon. I guess. Then she’s gone.”

Coulson frowns. Fitz’s voice sounds desperate by now. There’s a shadow flitting over his eyes and he plays with his hands, gritting his teeth.

“Do you like her?” He asks softly.

Fitz hums. “We … we talked. A lot. It’s nice. Talking to her. I like it.” He blushes a bit.

He likes her a lot, Coulson thinks. He feels happy for Fitz. He never really had relationships to other people. “And you think you can’t talk to her when she’s out of hospital?” He asks carefully.

“Yeah. She … she has no, uh, reason to come back for me,” Fitz says, lowering his head.

“Are you two friends?”

Fitz tilts his head and seems to consider this. “Don’t know,” he says quietly.

“If you’re friends, I’m sure she cares about you. You can ask her for her number, and you can write each other. Or phone each other. And she can visit you. Until you’re out too.”

Fitz scoffs. He squeezes his trembling hand and shakes his head. “I’ll never be out.”

“Why?”

Fitz looks at him and raises his eyebrows as if he wants to say: _Just look at me_. Out loud he says, “I’m too weak.”

The desperate expression in his eyes hurts Coulson’s heart. He reaches out to lay a hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “You’re not weak. You’re incredibly strong. And I’m so proud of you. You are fighting every day. You can do this. And you’re not alone, you know that right? Maybe you should tell Jemma that you don’t want to lose her as friend?”

Fitz swallows and frowns, looking thoughtful. “Maybe,” he says quietly.

 

 

[Jemma]

 

The sun is shining, and Jemma feels quite optimistic.

She did a few things. Important things. They weren’t all easy to accomplish, but she did it.

The most difficult thing first. She wrote a mail to her professor, telling him she wouldn’t be able to take the exam because of an accident. He replied almost immediately, his words sounding concerned. He told her to get well soon, to concentrate all her energy on this task and to do the exam later, when she feels fit enough for it. Jemma feels relived and a bit proud of herself. It still annoys her she can’t take the exam now, but well, it’s not the end of the world.

Next, she started to  look for a flat, balancing her laptop on her lap. The situation doesn’t look as dire as the last time she was searching for something for her own. The flats she found were not cheap, but if she’d find a weekend’s job, she could do it, she’s certain of it. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Milton, his parties and his awkward unwanted approaches anymore, ugh. A downside is that she would be quite lonely. She has never lived all by her own … But maybe she could get a cat.

Jemma even talked to a therapist, like Doctor Morse advised her. It felt awkward at first, but it helped. The therapist was kind and listened to Jemma patiently, while she was describing her feelings, her fears and worries. It felt good to let it all out in a rush. She apologized once, feeling the faint guilt again, but the therapist immediately told her she doesn’t have to be sorry for anything.  

Jemma learned a few things she’s going to try to remember from now on.

It’s normal to feel like she does, after such an experience. It's normal to be scared about the future. But she has to find ways to deal with the present. "If you're living in the future," the therapist said, "Present will rush past you and later you will be sorry for missing out things. Try to live now. And right now, your wellbeing, your recovery is the most important thing."

The therapist also asked her to talk about everything she remembered of the accident. Because if she would keep it in, it might express itself in panic attacks later. It was hard to talk about it … about the frozen fear when she vaguely noticed what was happening, the headlights that are burned into her mind now, the distant pain of hitting the concrete, laying on her back under the dark sky. It was hard. But she got through it, crying one, two times into a tissue. She got through it and feels better, emptier.

She might continue seeing a therapist after her hospital stay, Jemma thinks. It won’t hurt.

Her injuries are getting better too. The concussion faded almost completely; the dizziness faded into a vague throbbing. The bruises that are all over her body still ache with every movement, but they are of that sickly yellow colour they get shortly before they start to vanish. And her broken leg seems to do fine as well. Doctor Morse advised her to do some exercises for her leg. She stretches her leg and carefully raises it a tiny bit. This will make sure, that her hip muscles won’t weaken, the Doctor explained. Since the cast isn’t covering her knee, she can do some bending exercises as well.

It should take six to eight weeks for it to heal. That’s long … but the end is in sight distance. She marked it in her calendar.

This morning, after Doctor Morse examined her, she said with a pleased smile, “Tomorrow you can try to get up. With crutches of course. And you shouldn’t put too much weight on your hurt leg.”

It really feels like she’s getting herself and her life back together.

But something’s missing.

Fitz hasn’t visited her the last two days. She thinks about if she could have done or said something wrong, but quickly shoves that away. It very certainly has nothing to do with her. He’s probably not feeling well enough to make the way to her ward. She bites her lip as concern stirs in her. She hopes he’s alright …

It’s still quite boring here, even more without Fitz … She misses him.

She phones her parents a few times, calming her mother down. She tells Jemma they will come to see her the weekend.

But that’s still three days ahead. Jemma considers phoning Susan, but right now she doesn’t think she’s eager to listen to Susan’s never-ending blabbering about boys and stupid profs.

She decides to watch a few education videos on her laptop and then go to sleep. Her head feels heavy anyway. Tomorrow, when she’s allowed to start walking on crutches, she could visit Fitz. Maybe.

 

[Fitz]

 

Fitz shoves the scrambled egg on his plate around unenthusiastically.

Mack woke him up and brought him breakfast with a pointed look. _You need it_ , it said.

Fitz knows. Food is energy. Which his body is going to need if he really wants to get better. But it’s so exhausting. Every little movement, from moving the plastic fork up to his mouth to chewing, is agonizing. Added to this, his appetite is non-existent most of the days. It all tastes the same anyway.

He takes a tiny bite of a slice of bread and is relieved there’s no butter on it. For some reason, everyone in the ward seems to think you can’t eat bread without a thick layer of butter on it. And since the patients aren’t allowed to have knifes for obvious reasons, a few nurses tend to smear the butter on the bread beforehand, without asking or remembering that someone might not be okay with this.

Mack may be the only one here who cared enough to learn and remember that Fitz can’t stand butter. He has to gag when he smells or tastes it. The texture is just so wrong in his mouth. It’s not only butter. Another thing are cereals. Everyone seems to like cereals swimming in milk. Fitz can’t stand it cereals are all mushy. He prefers to munch the cereals dry and drink milk after he swallowed them.

His – apparently strange - eating habits were one of the reasons for Alistair Fitz’s random fits of rage, so when he was a child, Fitz has forced himself to eat whatever he got. Which wasn’t much anyway. Three meals a day were the exception. When Alistair was so drunk, he fell asleep on the couch – which was a blessing, because then he wouldn’t try to let his anger out on Fitz then - tended to forget he even had a child. When he was sure, Alistair was fast asleep, Fitz stole whatever he could get from the fridge and hid it in his room.   

Later, when he was living with Coulson, he still sometimes hoarded food, hiding it in the wardrobe. That habit faded, when he realized he didn’t need to worry about not getting enough to eat.

Of course, Coulson first poured the milk into the bowl with the cereals too, because, well, Coulson was normal and so he did what all the other normal people did. When Fitz hesitated to eat, Coulson asked him what was wrong. Fitz was almost too scared to tell him, but Coulson was smiling and really didn’t look threatening at all, so he said very quietly, “I can’t eat them when they are drowning in milk. It feels wrong … Sorry,” he added hastily.

“You don’t need to apologize. If you don’t like something, just tell me. So, how you like to eat your cereals?”

Fitz told him and Coulson filled him another bowl, putting a glass with milk beside it.

It really was that simple.

Coulson made a lot of seemingly difficult things very simple.

When he came to visit and brought Fitz the book, he even made the relationship with Jemma seem simple. Yes, he could ask her to stay in touch. He really could. If he just wasn’t so bloody scared of rejection … And there it is again. The familiar pang of self-hatred, yet in another form. Jemma maybe doesn’t want to stay in touch. Maybe she’s just being kind because well, he needed help and she was there and now she feels like she can’t tell or show him the truth because he’s _vulnerable_.

Fitz sighs and wills the thoughts away. He puts the fork away, his appetite now non-existent.

He rubs his temples with his thumbs and tries to think of something else. Unfortunately, the incident in the art room comes back instead of something happier, more hopeful …

The memories of the flashback still lingers in the corners of his troubled mind. Of course, the rational part of his mind understands that it is what occasionally happens in recovery. You take a few sure steps forward, just to stumble and fall. It’s normal. But there is the other part of his mind, that is just too busy with self-loathing to agree to the rational part.

His depression seems to laugh in the background.

Fitz feels a hint of anger. With the memory of Coulson’s encouraging smile, he eats a bit more of the scrambled egg and manages a whole slice of bread before he has to stop.  

It’s something.

Later, he forces himself to limb to art therapy. He continues his painting of Jemma. He spends a lot of time on the expression in her eyes. That kind, lively sparkle in the shades of hazel and amber. He wants to show her how he sees her. Because, it seems like she doesn’t even realize _how_ perfect she is. She shines brighter than the sun when she’s near. He hopes he managed to express her sunlight.  

Today he’s also going to meet his new therapist. The change went surprisingly smooth. Doctor Randall apparently didn’t insist further on his points. Fitz guesses that the elderly therapist is just glad he doesn’t have to deal with Fitz anymore. Well. This feeling is mutual then.

After art therapy he makes his way to the therapist’s office slowly, supporting himself with a hand on the wall. He left his crutches in his room and now he almost wishes he didn’t. But he has to manage to walk without them, at least a bit. Otherwise he’s never going to be stronger.

 _For what do you need to be stronger?_ A spiteful voice in his head asks. He shoves it away.  
  
When he enters the office, a woman in her thirties is sitting behind a desk, looking through some papers, without doubt either his medical files or Doctor Randall’s notes. Her blond hair is bound in a tight ponytail. She’s carrying glasses and is wearing a blazer. There is a faint smile on her face, that seems warm. She is basically the exact opposite of Randall. The little sign on her desk says “Doctor Addington”.

She raises her head and smiles at him. “Fitz. Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat.”

Fitz swallows and looks around. There are three seating possibilities. He looks at the couch, the armchair and the simpler chair and asks himself if this is a test. Most likely yes. She’s a shrink after all.

Doctor Randall didn’t have a couch. Just a table and two chairs. They were sitting awfully close. So close, that Fitz could see the black hairs in the man’s nose. Sometimes, he could also read what Randall was scribbling on his notepad. Things that basically expressed the growing frustration of the therapist.

Fitz sighs and chooses the couch. It’s the farthest away from the desk. When he sits, he discovers that there’s an aquarium too. Good. So, he gets a distraction in case he decides he doesn’t want to talk to this therapist either.

Doctor Addington’s first question kind of surprises him. “Why are you here, Fitz?”

Fitz blinks. “I have to,” he says confused.

The therapist tilts her head. “But no one is forcing you to go, right? You could have stayed in your room. But you decided to come here. Why?”

Fitz chews his lip. Why does she even care? Finally, he says, “I want to-to get better.”

“Why?” The therapist presses.

Fitz rubs the back of his hand, feeling irritated and confused. Why is she asking him so many questions? Doctor Randall always just told him what he needs to do if he ever wants to be able to live independently again and asked him to talk in his annoyed voice.

Doctor Addington is watching him patiently, the smile still on her calm face.

Fitz sighs and starts playing with his hands nervously. “I … people keep asking me questions lately. About what I, I am going to – to do. In the future.”

She nods and hums. “Is there something you _want_ to do?”

Fitz avoids her gaze. There are things he thought about, but he always shoves them back into the corner of his mind he could title with “things that are never going to happen”, because he knows he’s going to mess it up anyway.  
He shrugs and says, “Even if, I-I-I couldn’t. I’m stuck in here. So-so what does it matter.”

“Is that the truth?” She asks him gently.

No. Not really. It’s just a way of avoiding it. Avoiding thinking about it earnestly. Because it’s stressful.

The truth is …

“I’m scared,” he says, feeling like the weight of this revelation is going to crush him.

Doctor Addington doesn’t question why. She just waits. Fitz faintly realizes she’s making him talk exactly with this kind of silence, but he doesn’t mind it. It doesn’t feel so bad to talk about it. Feels like he’s about to empty his too full head.

“I’m scared I – I am da-da- …” He frowns in concentration, forcing the word to come out. “Damaged beyond repair,” he breathes.

He thinks a lot more but it’s too jumbled to form it into coherent words. He’s scared that he’s always going to feel like this. That food is always going to be tasteless. That the world is always going to be colourless. That he will always disappoint everyone around him and himself. That he will be a failure, no matter what he intends to do. That he won’t ever be able to let the past go and live in the present, with the future ahead.

It all rushes through him and his eyes well up. He tries to suppress the tears – tears are for the weak … - but it’s a lost battle.

He has never cried in front of Doctor Randall. Neither has he in front of the other therapist. But here he is, on this couch, sobbing into his hands.

Doctor Addington gets up and hands him a box of tissues. While he’s wiping his eyes furiously, she tells him, “The truth often isn’t easy to bear. But it’s an important step to understand it. You’re not damaged beyond repair, Fitz. You’ve been through a lot and what you’re experiencing is the aftermath. You’re wishing it away but the more you do, the more it will come back, stronger even. So you have to accept it. Accept it and deal with it in healthy way and it’s going to get easier.”

She says a lot more and he listens, the tears drying on his face.

 

[Jemma]

 

Jemma is relieved to be back on her own feet. Well, on one food at least. It’s difficult to walk with the cast on her leg. She leans heavily on the crutches and breathes deeply, putting one food in front of the other. It’s easier with almost every step. She makes her slow way to the psych ward, thanking everyone who holds a door open for her. She hopes Fitz is in the mood for a tea at the cafeteria und maybe a talk on the bench under the cherry tree … She really misses him.

When she reached her aim, she sees Mack turning around a corner. He looks at her surprised and a warm smile spreads on his face. “Jemma. It’s good to see you up.”

“I’m glad I can finally leave the bed,” she tells him. “It has been so boring. Uh. How is Fitz? He hasn’t visited me the last days. He doesn’t have to of course,” she hurries to add. “But … well. I’m just wondering.”

Mack rubs the back of his head. “Well … He’s okay. Coulson has visited him and since then he has tried to stick to his diet and his schedule but … Well. Something happened at art therapy lately. He had a flashback and a strong panic attack, ending up hurting himself and an unexperienced nurse who made the mistake to touch him. It was tough for him.”

“Oh.” Jemma bites her lip. „I see … Well, I hoped we could go to the cafeteria. Share a tea. And maybe go outside a bit.”

Mack smiles at her. “That sounds great. I hope you can convince him to leave the ward. You have my okay. I don’t think you need someone watching him, he’s stable enough for a tea and a walk.”

Jemma beams at him. “Thank you.”

 

[Fitz]

 

Fitz has just taken a look inside the book Coulson brought him, when there’s a light knock at his doorframe. He looks up and raises his eyebrows in surprise.

It’s Jemma, leaning heavily on two crutches, breathing heavily. “Hey,” she says, smiling at him.  

Fitz swallows. “Jemma …” What is she doing here? Did she really leave her room and walk here on crutches just to see him? Now he starts to feel bad for not visiting her …

“I’m walking,” Jemma says, pointing out the obvious and chuckling weakly.

“Yeah. Uh. That’s great,” Fitz says, rubbing the back of his head.

Jemma limps into the room, sinking on the chair beside his bed with a relieved sigh and wipes some lost sweaty strands of hair out of her forehead. “Fitz … I’m glad to see you. I missed you.”

Fitz blinks. She missed him? Well. He missed her too. He would tell her, if he didn’t feel like there was a stone in his throat he had to breathe around.

Jemma smiles at him, playing with her hands. “I thought … well. I wondered if you would fancy tea. With me. In the cafeteria.”

Oh.

Fitz gulps. He realizes he hasn’t even washed his face by now. He’s also not dressed and he’s sure he’s not smelling good …

Jemma tilts her head and seems like she’s reading his thoughts. “I’ll wait,” she says softly.

Fitz nods. His heartbeat quickens. She really wants to spend time with him …

He gets out of bed awkwardly, stumbling to the bathroom hastily.

 

* * *

 

  
The tea is nice. He chose a green one and enjoys the warm liquid in his throat. They put a biscuit on the plate and he wants to spare it to the end. He notices that Jemma does the same.

She talks a lot about the last days. She has talked to a therapist, which makes Fitz perk up. She has also told her prof she won’t take the exam, which Fitz finds very brave of her. He wants to tell her, but the words won’t come, he instead coughs until Jemma laughs concerned and slaps his back carefully.

Her touch makes him blush.

Their hands are close together on the table. If he just moved his a bit, he would be able to brush her fingers with his.  

Unfortunately, after a while, the cafeteria is filling with more people. They are talking and laughing, everything getting louder around them. Fitz shifts on his seat nervously. The noise makes him anxious. He rubs his knee and tries to focus on Jemma, but it works only halfway.

Eventually, Jemma seems to notice. “Should we go outside?” She asks him.

Fitz nods, feeling grateful.

He eats his biscuit and Jemma does too, with a light chuckle.

 

* * *

 

Before they reach the bench under the cherry tree, Jemma’s bathed in sweat. Fitz throws her a concerned look, but she shakes her head and smiles reassuringly. “It’s alright. I need to strengthen my muscles.”

It’s kind of funny, Fitz thinks, that they’re both leaning on crutches now.

When they finally can sink on the bench, they are both a bit breathless.

“This is where we first met,” Jemma says, smiling.  

Fitz nods. He looks above them. There are hardly any pink blossoms left. The leaves are green and strong. It’s like the tree is preparing itself for bearing the weight of the countless cherries. He doesn’t particularly like cherries. Fruits with stones are tedious.

“I’m glad I met you, Fitz,” Jemma tells him seriously. “You helped me so much and … and I really enjoying being with you.”

He does too. He’s glad too. He’s …

He wants to tell her so much. Wants to ask her if they are – could be – friends. But suddenly, he feels a bit dizzy and his heart seems to miss a beat. At the same time, there’s a strange feeling in his throat … As if it’s clogged up with heavy air.  

_Oh no …_

Fitz knows the feeling horribly well. It’s an upcoming panic attack.

_Why now …_

He tries to hide it from Jemma. He doesn’t want to ruin this day which was the first good one since felt ages. He grabs his own hand and squeezes firmly, while still trying to listen to Jemma, who asks him if he’s seen that adorable dog over there. He nods, gritting his teeth, as he starts to feel like he’s dissociating, feeling light and heavy at the same time. The vague anxiety is making his stomach clench.

 _Please … let her not notice_ , he begs nothing and everything.

But of course, Jemma does notice. “Are you alright?” She asks concerned, her eyes flitting over his face.

Crap.

Why does he always have to mess up. Always …

He wants to tell her he’s fine and instead a whimper escapes his throat.

“Fitz?” Jemma leans closer to him, raising her hand as if she wants to touch him but doesn’t dare to do it. “Fitz, what …”

He exhales shakily and is finally able to talk. “It’s … a-a-a panic attack. The start of-of it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut when he feels more dizzy.

“Is there anything I can do?” Jemma asks quietly.

“Yeah … you … could you … talk?”

So, Jemma talks. She tells him about the universe and the stars. She tells him she wants to do a world tour one day and that she wants to learn everything there is to learn about fireflies. She tells him about her favourite childhood movies. She tells him she likes Doctor Who and wishes she had someone who would watch it with her.

Her even voice calms him down gradually. The feeling of floating disappears as does the faint rushing noise in his ears. He’s glad it didn’t develop into a full blown panic attack.

“Better?” Jemma asks.

“Yeah … Thank you, Jemma.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?” Jemma says, smiling brightly. “I mean,” she hurries to add, “If you … if you want us to be friends, that is. Hm.”

Fitz stares at her. Did she just say they are friends? Friends … He can’t even believe she wants to be near him. So … Coulson was right? If Jemma considers them as friends, she wouldn’t just disappear right? But … he has to tell her that he wants to be friends. Otherwise, she would think he’s the one who doesn’t want to do anything to do with her …

He hurries to say, “Yeah. I … I would like that, Jemma. Us. Being, uh, friends.”

She beams at him and god, he wants to drown in that smile.

That’s how they become friends.

Quite simple.

 

* * *

 

  
Later, when he’s back in his room, Fitz takes the book, Coulson brought him, again and looks at it thoughtfully.

It’s been ages he could lose himself in a book or movie completely, without his thoughts pestering him.

He flips through the pages, remembering years ago, when he was watching a documentation about Goodall and her life with the monkeys. He dreamed about going to the jungle too. In the depths of the rainforest, there weren’t a lot of people but a huge number of fascinating monkeys he could live with and study.

There is so much to see, he suddenly realizes. The world lies outside of this room.

He remembers Jemma talking about her dreams about a world tour. Would she like to have a friend with her? Well, Jemma probably has a dozen or more friends. So she surely wouldn’t pick Fitz out of all of them, but still … The thought, the image, of them traveling around the world, it’s pleasant.

It makes him feel warm inside.

Fitz smiles, opens the book and starts to read.


	7. Fitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tw for mentions of child abuse.

Fitz sneezes into a tissue violently and curses.

He caught a cold and it’s disgusting. His throat feels like it’s filled with dry sand, his voice is croaky, and he can barely breathe through his stuffy nose that feels sore and itches. His head is so heavy he can barely lift it from the pillow. From time to time a coughing fit shakes him and it feels like his throat is being torn apart

When Mack checks his temperature in the morning, he frowns in worry. “Bedrest today, Turbo. I'll cancel all your appointments, ” he announces sternly and Fitz groans.

Bloody hell.

Of course this had to happen after the last few days that Fitz was able to describe as good without feeling like lying to himself.

Although Jemma had left the hospital by now and returned to the flat she’s still sharing with this Milton guy – who really seems to be the absolute worst – she visits Fitz every day after her physical therapy and her sessions with the therapist. Since she’s still determined to find a flat for herself, Fitz has helped her searching and Jemma wrote a few mails and made some phone calls. So far she hasn’t had any success. But she said she wouldn’t give up and Fitz absolutely believes her. She’s a person who gets what she wants, he could always feel that in her presence. The few hours he spends with her are the lightest moments of the day.

His own regular therapy sessions are much more bearable now. Although he feels emotionally drained after them. But at least Doctor Addington is always patient. She never furrows her brows or taps her pen against her desk when he needs some time to get a word out or stays quiet for a while longer because he just doesn’t know what to say or can’t form a thought into words. It happens frequently and Randall has been extremely annoyed by it. But then, he has been annoyed with everything about Fitz.

Fitz also tried to attend physical therapy regularly and by now he can manage much longer distances without his crutches.

And he’s almost finished with Jemma’s portrait. He has been certain he would make the last brush stroke today... 

But now he’s stuck in his bed and has to gulp down awful cough syrup and drink one cup camomile tea after the other and his nose won’t stop dripping. Ugh.

He feels awful.

When Jemma limps into his room later that day he wants to tell her to leave before she becomes infected, but all that comes out of his aching throat is a desperate croak.

“Oh no, Fitz,” Jemma says, grimacing in sympathy. For some reasons, she still comes closer, leaning heavily on her crutches. 

“You will get sick t-t-too if you stay,” Fitz rasps and reaches for another tissue.

“I don’t think so, I have a perfectly functioning immune system. I don’t get sick more than once or twice in a year,” Jemma says cheerfully and sits on the chair, but keeps a bit more distance than usually. “I have already been sick two months ago. And even if I get a cold too, at least we can suffer together.”

“Uh.” Fitz blinks. Is she serious? She wants to stay with him even if she could end up like him? She's either crazy or bored out of her mind. Or ... or she just really does want to spend time with you, you idiot, a part of him that's definitely too optimistic, says.

“So what do we do since you can't leave the bed? How about watching a movie?” Jemma asks, leaning her crutches against the chair and carefully stretching out her hurt leg.

They end up watching one of the movies Jemma mentioned as her favourites. Forrest Gump. Fitz has never seen it before and he thinks it’s quite nice. That Forrest guy doesn’t fit in and is laughed at, but he lives an adventurous life and protects his friends, takes care for the love of his life and is even a father in the end. 

Even more than the movie, he loves Jemma’s reactions to it. He’s watching her somewhat furtively, feeling warm whenever she chuckles, gasps or sighs sadly. Every movement on her face is like a little firework of beauty and every laugh makes her eyes sparkle, the appearing specks of light changing them into the soft tone of honey.

The movie is long and Fitz feels himself getting sleepy when the end credits start rolling. Right when he yawns for the first time, Mack knocks at the doorframe lightly, carrying a tray with yet another steaming cup of tea, a bowl of chicken soup, some slices of toast and pill bottles that contain Fitz’s meds. “Hey, you two. Time for dinner.”

Fitz groans. Right now he wants to do nothing but sleeping. But Mack looks at him pointedly and hands him a spoon. “It’s not much. You need the fluid and the energy Fitz.”

He sighs but takes the spoon, dipping it into the soup that admittedly smells delicious. His stomach growls and he blushes. 

Jemma smiles at him and reaches for her crutches. “Enjoy your meal. I’ll go home now. See you tomorrow?”

Fitz forgets the soup on his spoon for a moment and doesn’t notice that it drips back down into the bowl. His eyes focus on Jemma’s smile and the fact that she isn’t at all disgusted or bored about him lying in bed with a constantly dripping nose and wet coughing fits that send him spitting onto the blanket.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

It takes a few days for Fitz’s cold to get better. They feel endless but at least they are brightened by Jemma’s presence in the afternoons. He watches a lot of movies together with her, who eventually loses her thick cast and instead gets a lighter splint with which she can bend her leg much better.

Jemma discovers that Fitz doesn’t know a lot of her personal favourite Disney movies, so she starts to bring them with her.

They watch them in his room, on her laptop, since the hospital TV doesn’t have a DVD player.

Maybe Fitz just imagines it, but he has the feeling, that the space between them gets smaller with every movie they watch. First, Jemma stays on the chair beside his bed, but he guesses it can’t be very comfortable. She moves to the edge of his bed then, leaning against the headboard.

They have a lot of fun watching Toy Story, Frozen and Treasure Planet.

One day, they watch The Fox And The Hound. Jemma says it’s her personal favourite.

First, Fitz thinks it’s quite cute. Of course it’s horrible to see the mother of the little baby fox die, but he loves the idea of the fox being adopted by the nice old lady, who protects him from the mean hunter. It touches something inside him in a warm way. He enjoys the fox and the hound becoming best friends beside their differences. But suddenly, everything gets really, really sad. The elderly woman has to drop the fox off in the forest and leaves him. The scene upsets him so much, his stomach clenches and burns.

The song that accompanies the scene is even more heart-breaking. _Goodbye may seem forever. Farewell is like the end. But in my heart’s a memory. And there you’ll always be._

Fitz swallows around the heavy lump in his throat and throws a quick glance at Jemma. He freezes when he sees that she started crying. The tears are running over her face silently, dripping off her chin onto the blanket. “Jemma?” He asks carefully.

She flinches slightly. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I always have to cry at this scene since I have seen the movie for the first time as a child. It’s just … It’s too much.”

Fitz nods. “It really is a lot.” He awkwardly reaches out to touch Jemma’s shoulder, hoping he can spend a little comfort. Jemma doesn’t flinch back so he leaves his hand where it is, stroking her shoulder for a while.

Eventually, Jemma sighs and shakes her head. “I shouldn’t react like this, right? I’m an adult. I should deal with sad scenes in kid’s movies.”

“Jemma. When you’re sad it’s alright to let it out. And this scene made me sad too. Who cares if it’s supposed to be a-a-a child’s movie.”

Jemma smiles at him, wiping a lost strand of hair out of her forehead. “You’re right. Thank you Fitz. Sometimes, I forget that I am allowed to express what I feel freely. The therapist told me so too. You’re a good friend for reminding me.”

Fitz’s face warms up. Before he can answer, Jemma leans her head against his shoulder with a soft sigh. She’s so close now, he can feel her breath on his skin. Oh. He suddenly feels lightheaded and notices he stopped breathing. He inhales deeply, going a bit rigid.  

The next moment, Jemma seems to realize what she’s doing. She backs away, looking at him wide-eyed. “Oh. I’m sorry. I should have asked you if this is alright, I … I invaded your personal space and … I’m sorry.”

It’s okay, Fitz wants to say. It felt nice. But it’s as if his lip are sealed together suddenly. It’s one of the worst moments to have a word black out and he curses his brain. Jemma blinks and looks at her  hands, fumbling with the bracelet around her right wrist. Her face is flushed.

The silence between them is definitely awkward now. And he doesn’t even know why. Not really.

But before he can make sense of the situation, there’s a knock on the door and Mack looks inside. “Hey, Turbo. Jemma. I’m sorry to interrupt you two, but we’re way over visiting times.”

Jemma startles and throws a look at her watch. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice it was getting that late. How about we watch the rest of the movie tomorrow?” She throws a glance at Fitz, that seems both regretful and relieved.

Fitz shrugs and nods, but inside he feels agitated.

Why can’t she stay? He is aware Mack is just following the rules, but still … Couldn’t he grant them a bit more time?

Jemma clears her throat and gets up. “Well. Till tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah,” Fitz murmurs, not quite looking at her. “Goodbye Jemma.”

After she left, he lays awake for quite a while, thinking about how it felt when Jemma leaned her head against his shoulder. It made him feel a lot of things. Not only confusion. He also felt like he wants to protect her. Which is stupid, because she’s not in danger. But still …

He wouldn’t have minded if they stayed like this. Her head on his shoulder, or the other way round. He likes to be close to Jemma. But maybe she doesn’t like being close to him?

There’s no way to figure this out just now, he concludes and tries to fall asleep in earnest.

 

* * *

 

The next day Fitz is finally able to move his body without his head screaming in pain.

He’s relieved he can finally go back to art therapy, doing something else than laying in his bed and staring out of the window, at the TV or up at the ceiling. Then he’s surprised he’s even that happy to get out of his room. There were times when he didn’t feel the need at all. Times in which his bed was like a safe haven, shielding him from the overwhelming sensations and impressions outside his room.

Maybe he really is getting better. Maybe.

When he's sitting in front of the canvas, he looks at the portrait of Jemma and feels that he’s almost finished. There’s just something missing. A little something. He tilts his head and studies the painting, chewing on his lip. Ah. He sees it now. He smiles and raises his hand to spread some light red on Jemma’s cheeks. It’s the lovely flush that spreads on her skin when she’s excited or embarrassed.

When Fitz is finished, he sits back to inspect the painting again. It makes him happy to look at it. He thinks it might be his best work.  
He can’t wait to show her someday. But not now. He’s way too excited and would probably embarrass himself in front of her. So he carefully hides the painting under a white linen blanket and leaves, rubbing at his colour-stained hands. It’s time for physical therapy. He groans inwardly at the thought of doing all these tedious tasks for his hands again, but he fights against the voice that tells him to just go back to bed and walks on.

  
When Fitz turns around a corner he sees Jemma standing in front of the room for physical therapy. She’s not alone. A strange woman is with her, looking at Jemma in a half affectionate half worried way.

Fitz knows immediately that she’s Jemma’s mother. She has the same amber hair. But instead of falling straight over her shoulders, it’s curly. Jemma also has her nose from her mother obviously. He hesitates, considering walking backwards. This could be one of the awkward social situations he doesn’t want to stumble into. He's horrible with new people … But it’s too late. Jemma already discovered him. “Fitz!” she calls, a bright smile spreading on her face.

Her mother turns to look at him, a question in her eyes. Fitz immediately feels anxious, but he can’t run away now. He nervously fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, realizing his hands are sprinkled with red, blue and brown spots. His ears start to burn. “Hey,” he says, feeling like an idiot.

“Mum, this is my friend, Fitz,” Jemma says and Fitz’s eyes widen. Something about how Jemma says this line, so natural and easy, makes his heart flutter. “Fitz, this is my mother, Eleonore Simmons.”

Jemma’s mother smiles and reaches a hand out. “Hello Fitz. Jemma told me about you.”

She did? The anxiety rises and Fitz swallows, taking the offered hand, hoping he doesn’t press to light or to strong. “Hello, Mrs. Simmons. It’s my-my-my …” Great. Just great. Fitz’s stomach drops as the words fail him and Jemma looks at him with a hint of worry while her mother just frowns. Calm down, he tells himself sternly. You can do this. He takes a few deep breaths. “It’s a pleasure. To meet you.” There. He did it.

Eleonore Simmons smiles. “The pleasure is mine. We were just about to get a coffee. Do you want to accompany us?”

“Uh.” Fitz swallows. The thought of doing small talk in the cafeteria with a new person is frightening. His throat tightens. 

“I think Fitz has physical therapy now, right?” Jemma chimes in.

“Yes,” Fitz says, relieved. “Sorry.”

“I see. Well, it was nice to meet you, thank you for being there for my daughter when she needed a friend,” Eleonore tells him and he nods at her. “Goodbye, Mrs. Simmons. Jemma.” He hurries to get into the room, his hands sweaty.

Well. That was scary but he didn’t act like an utter idiot. At least he thinks – hopes – so.

Physical therapy is a bit difficult, because now he has to think about if they are going to talk about him a lot. Has he been too awkward? God, what if her mother thinks she’s hanging out with someone potentially dangerous? He tries to shake the thoughts off but every new one leads to countless others and eventually he gives it up and just tries to do the exercises at least halfway

 

* * *

 

  
Fitz is still a bit distracted later at his therapy session with Doctor Addington. Now, his focus switched to what Jemma said to her mother, her words reverberating  in his mind like a song. _This is my friend Fitz. Fitz. My friend …_

Maybe it’s stupid to feel so warm inside about this. But he can’t help it.

Fitz watches the fish moving around in the aquarium. There’s a new coral in it. Pink and red, gently swaying in the water. A lot of fish swim through its nettles.

_This is my friend Fitz …_

Doctor Addington clears her throat and Fitz flinches. He straightens and looks at the therapist, feeling his ears getting hot. “I’m sorry. What-what did you say?”

“I asked if you want to pick up where we stopped last time. But apparently there’s already something you’re thinking about a lot.” She smiles.

Fitz swallows. “Well. Yes. Uh. It’s … Jemma. She – she called me her friend today. In front of her mother.”

Doctor Addington hums. “Oh. How do you feel about that?”

Fitz sighs. The therapist asks him how he feels about this and that quite often. It’s always difficult to describe. He thinks about it, studying his hands, and Doctor Addington waits patiently, letting silence linger in the room.

He has felt … good. It was nice to hear her saying it to someone else. It kind of clarifies that they’re really friends, right? But … underneath the good feeling, there’s something else, lurking in the background. A thought … The thought that maybe, she just said it to be polite. Or because she didn’t want to say, this is Fitz, one of the patients here I talk to occasional because I once helped him through a panic attack and now I think it could hurt him if I don’t continue seeing him.

Maybe he’s reading too much into this. Maybe that’s why Jemma reacted the way she did when she laid her head on his shoulder briefly. Maybe … Well, what did he do anyway, to deserve her friendship?

He looks up at Doctor Addington and clears his throat. “I don’t know. I … liked it. But … I don’t know if – maybe she was just being po-po-polite. I still don’t quite know, why she, uh, would like to be friends with me.” He stops, feeling his throat tighten.

Doctor Addington makes a note. “Do you think you don’t deserve her friendship?” She asks.

Fitz swallows. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I never really had friends. Maybe I’m just … maybe I’m a bad person or I’m too-too dysfunctional,” he murmurs. He’s a bit surprised at his own words. But then, Doctor Addington has always been good in pulling out some hidden things so far …

She looks at him thoughtfully. “Where does this come from?”

Fitz has a vague feeling where this might lead to and he doesn’t like it at all. He shrugs.  

“Is it because of what your father used to say?” Doctor Addington asks.

There it is.

Fitz shifts on the couch nervously. His stomach tightens. “You-you mean my bio-biological father, Alistair,” he clarifies. “My father’s Phil Coulson.”

Doctor Addington nods and makes a note. “How do you feel when you think about Alistair?”

Fitz chews on his lip. “Mostly angry,” he says evasively. “But … he isn’t part of my-my life anymore.”

Now he starts to feel really anxious. They haven’t really talked about Alistair Fitz so far. He feels the urge to flap his hand to release some of the uprising stress but supresses it and grabs his bad hand instead. Of course, the therapist notices immediately. “You know there’s nothing wrong with your stimming. If it’s making you feel better, you should do it. You’re allowed to do it,” she tells him gently.

Fitz avoids her gaze. She says this as if this was easy … It isn’t. “It makes me look stupid,” he murmurs.

“Did Alistair said this?” Doctor Addington asks.

Fitz grits his teeth. Yes and no. Alistair used other words. Worse ones. Retard. Freak.  The bullies in school used the same words and mocked him by imitating him and laughing. He grabs his hand tighter and bends forward, avoiding Doctor Addington’s gaze.

“This is a difficult topic for you,” the therapist says. It’s not a question. More like a statement.

Fitz nods.

“Remember you’re in charge here, Fitz. You can stop this if it’s getting too much.”

He nods again.

“But you also have to know, that it’s important to talk about this. It’s clearly something that makes you upset. I brought it up because I think you’re stable enough right now, to face this. Alistair may not be a part of your life anymore, but your memories of what he did to you won’t go away. You suffered childhood trauma, Fitz. Childhood trauma affects us as adults in different ways. The flashbacks and panic attacks you are experiencing as well as some of the other issues you’re dealing with, like the insecurity, can evolve from this trauma. It’s part of what we should tackle here. But again, I want you to know that you don’t have to talk about it. Not now.”

Fitz makes a bitter noise. Of course. It makes absolute sense and it isn’t like he didn’t think about it before. Of course the shadow of Alistair is still following him. Even if he wants to forget everything, it won’t just go away. He’s aware of that. Is his inability to accept that Jemma might really like him and might want him as her friend connected to his father telling him he’s worthless, useless and will never be good enough for anyone? Most likely.

He sighs and rubs the back of his hand restlessly. “I want to try,” he murmurs.

Doctor Addington nods. “This is very brave, Fitz. You can stop whenever you like, alright? Tell me about what happened. What do you remember first, when you think about Alistair?”

Fitz exhales shakily. He closes his eyes and starts to talk. “After mum died, he-he drank. Too much. First, he just insulted me. But eventually, he started to beat me. With a-a-a belt, mostly. He locked me in his wardrobe or in the cellar, when he … when he said he had enough. Sometimes, he just for-for-for-got I’m there. I had to steal food. I had to steal things like, like shampoo or toothpaste in the little shop around the corner, and-and I still feel guilty …” He stops for a moment and scoffs. “Maybe the owner knew. Maybe he knew and let me steal the things because I looked like a-a-a stray. When Alistair broke my arm, one of my teachers noticed. And that was the end of it.” Except it wasn’t. It should have been the end, but it’s all still there. It’s just buried under the new layers of living with an actual Dad who took care of him. Buried doesn’t mean gone.

Sometimes he wishes there was a way to erase memories. Because they try so desperately to get past his walls. Like right now. In front of his closed eyes, demons manifest into contours and -

  
_Alistair towers over him, a half-empty bottle beer loosely in his hand. His eyes are red and glassy and furious. His mouth is a grim line. “You worthless brat,” he snarls. “You know your teacher called me again? Said you aren’t able to sit still in lesson? Said I should let them make some tests ... What are you, retarted?"_

_He grabs Leo at the collar of his shirt and drags him down the stairs towards the cellar. Leo doesn’t resist. It’s useless anyway. He almost gags from the smell of booze radiating from his father.  
_

_It hurts when he’s dropped and his knees hit hard concrete, but he bites his lip hard to not scream out. It would only lead to something worse than this._

_“Think about what you did,” Alistair growls and turns to leave. The door slams shut and Leo flinches. He starts to cry, desperately reaching around in the darkness, for something to hold on._

_He wants out. He wants out. He wants …_

  
\- "Fitz. Breathe,” Doctor Addington’s voice says, right in front of him.

Fitz flinches and gasps for breath. He didn’t even notice he held it in. He looks up and sees the therapist standing in front of him. She hands him a glass of water and he takes it gratefully, sipping the cool liquid that is balm for his dry throat.

When he’s finished he hands the glass back and presses a hand on his sweaty forehead, bending over. His stomach clenches painfully. He feels sick. “I … I am sorry. I need a, a, uh, a moment …”

“It’s alright. We don’t have to do this now. This was a lot. Do you think you can go back to your room alone?”

Fitz wants to say yes, he hasn’t needed someone to accompany him for a long time. But then, he feels his legs trembling and the world sways around him, and he shakes his head. “No.” His eyes well up and he angrily wipes at them, trying to force the tears away. _Tears are for the weak …_

“It’s alright. You just faced some of your worst memories, Fitz. You should be proud.”

I wish I could, Fitz thinks. I wish. He feels so exhausted …

“I’ll call a nurse,” Doctor Addington tells him, picking up her phone.

“Can you … Mack. Please call Mack.”

“Alright. You can just rest a moment, alright?”

Fitz nods and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling with heavy eyes. He doesn’t want to have these memories. He doesn’t want to know what he’s been through. He wishes he could replace them with the memories of Coulson entirely, without having the shadow-images of his nightmares.

Eventually, Mack comes into the room, bending over Fitz, his face full of worry. “Hey, Turbo. You’re okay?”

“No,” Fitz breathes.

Mack’s eyes soften. He reaches out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your room. You look like you need some sleep.”

Fitz takes his hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet, feeling like he’s going to float away like a lost boat on an ocean.

 

* * *

 

Doctor Addington tells him to take a day break from therapy and Fitz’s grateful for that. The last session is still in his head. But after a night of good, restful sleep, he feels a bit different about it. He hasn’t talked about his memories for so long. But now he did it and he feels a bit less heavier. Also he feels like there’s a way to explain what’s going on in situations like the one with Jemma and her mother. It isn’t him. Not really. It’s him and what he experienced combined. And when he can get a bit order into the mess, maybe it’s going to be better sometime and he can be happy … Well. Happier. Maybe.

On the day he doesn’t go to therapy, Coulson comes to visit and he has Robin with him.

They meet in the park again. Fitz waits for them under the cherry tree. He smiles when he sees them approaching, Robin holding Coulson’s hand. She grew a bit again. She’s wearing a lovely yellow dress and her hazel hair’s braided.

Her eyes light up when she sees Fitz. She runs to him and hugs him, making a happy noise.

“Hey. Missed you too, little monkey,” he whispers into her ear and pulls her close.

Coulson hugs him too and Fitz feels a lot better again. This is his family now. Alistair is nothing but a bad memory, a ghost in a nightmare, and he can learn how to deal with it, how to not let it affect him so much. He hopes so.

They’re taking a walk and Robin runs towards a playground, immediately sitting on the swing with a delighted smile.

Coulson and Fitz sit down on a bench nearby.

“You’re looking good,” Coulson tells him with a smile.

“Thank you,” Fitz murmurs.

He watches Robin on the swing and feels at peace. He thinks about how lovely it would be, to live with her and Coulson again. To be a family. But then he thinks of his own little flat and wonders what happened to it since he couldn’t pay the rent. And from his currently empty unused flat, his thoughts wander off to Jemma. Jemma, who’s desperately trying to get a flat. Oh. An idea forms in his head.

“Dad, what happened to my, uh, flat?” He asks.

Coulson looks at him surprised. “Well, it’s still yours. I payed the rent.”

Fitz looks at him shocked. Coulson payed the rent. But … “I can never make up for this,” He says, his face burning. It will take a long time until he can even consider to earn money.

Coulson shakes his head. “Fitz. You’re family. And it’s not that much. It’s just a small flat. That you will need when you go back to studying, right?”

Fitz clears his throat. “Uh. Right. Thank you.” He licks his lips and clears his throat. “Dad, what would you say, if, uh, someone else lived in the flat for a while?”

Coulson’s eyebrow raises over his glasses. “Who is someone?”

Fitz blushes. “Jemma. My, uh, friend. She’s trying to get a flat. But … it’s difficult.”

Coulson smiles. “Ah. I see. Well, it’s your flat, son.”

Fitz returns his smile. “Thank you. For everything.” He leans over to hug Coulson again and feels happy about the thought he could help Jemma out like this.

 

* * *

  
  
When Fitz sees Jemma next, she looks tired. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

“Are you alright?” Fitz asks, frowning.

Jemma sits on the edge of his bed and sighs. “Well. Not really … I had a pretty bad dream tonight. Maybe because I … well I don’t feel comfortable in my room anymore. You know that. I just want to be somewhere else.”

Fitz nods. He thinks of his idea, but he first wants her to give the chance to get rid of the bag of bad emotions that she’s carrying around with her right now without a doubt. “You want to talk about it?”

Jemma hesitates, biting her lip. “Okay,” she says quietly, folding her hands in her lap. “You know, I already talked with the therapist about this, uh, tendency of mine, to bottle my emotions up instead of releasing them. It’s not exactly healthy. I know that. Now better than before. But, it’s difficult to unlearn some things, you know?”

Oh yes. Fitz knows exactly. He nods, waiting for her to continue.

“You see, when I was a child, my father taught me to put my troubles away in a little box so they wouldn't keep me up at night. Bad feelings anger, fear, pain I would just put them inside that little box, and they would stay in there, nice and neat and crushed.”

Fitz blinks. That’s … not exactly a good way of dealing with the fears and worries of a child. What was her father thinking? He's about to get angry. But Jemma's words also makes him realize that she is dealing with some difficult dark stuff too. 

Jemma swallows and when she continues talking, her eyes fill with phantom fear. “Well. There’s that. The little box. And tonight I dreamed that everything locked up inside that box came out. It came out in form of a demon with my face, Fitz.” She shudders. “She tried to choke me. It felt … pretty real. I woke up screaming.”

She stops, shaking her head. “It was just a nightmare. But sometimes … sometimes it feels like nightmares can hurt you, you know?”

Fitz nods again. “Nightmares are a-a-a bloody pain in the ass,” he says seriously and Jemma laughs. “Yes. Thank you for listening to me. It feels better now.”

“You should never feel like you have to-to-to, uh, lock something inside you. Let it out and deal with it,” Fitz tells her. It’s something Doctor Addington said to him too. It feels like he passes the advice over to Jemma.

She nods and smiles.

Fitz bites his lip. Now? Now.

He reaches over to open the top drawer of his nightstand, rummaging in it. “I wanted to, um, give you some-something,” he murmurs, making a triumphant noise when he finds it. The little key to his flat. “Your hand,” he says.

Jemma tilts her head and looks confused, but she reaches her hand out and Fitz drops the key into it.

He watches curiously, as she looks down at it, frowning. “Fitz. What …”

“It’s for a flat,” he says quickly, his face burning. “Well. _My_ flat. I … I thought you could, uh, stay there. Until you found something you can afford.”

Jemma pales. She inhales sharply. “Fitz,” she breathes. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”  She bites her lip and hands the key back to him. But he shakes his head.

“No. Please. I want to help.”

“But … it’s _your_ flat.”

He half-smiles at her. “Does it look like I’m going to leave here soon? You need it much more than I do right now, Jemma.”

“Fitz …”

“Just take it, Jemma. If it makes you feel better, you can pay part of the rent to my Dad. Okay?”

Jemma looks down at the key again and swallows. Finally, she closes her hand around it and whispers, “Thank you, Fitz. Thank you so much.”  
She leans over to hug him carefully and Fitz awkwardly wraps his arms around her. His heartbeat quickens as he inhales her scent that’s so familiar by now and feels her comforting warmth.

I want to help you. You helped me so much and I hope I can give a tiny bit of it back to you. Because … you’re so important to me. You really are, he thinks.

He also thinks of Jemma’s portrait, that’s resting in the art therapy room. He wants to show her. Wants to see her reaction. But she’s still hugging him and it feels good. He doesn’t want this hug to end.

_I’m going to show her later._


	8. Jemma / Fitz / Mack

[Jemma]

 

Jemma is packing.

The moment feels strange yet exciting. She folds her clothes, putting them into boxes neatly and piles her books – There are so many of them. How can she have that many books!? – on top.

Once she’s finished, Jemma flops on the bed with a heavy sigh. This is exhausting. Her leg is still not healed completely. She’s still wearing that annoying brace. And she still has to grab her things from the bathroom. She smirks when she realizes Milton is forced to not forget to buy toothpaste for once.

It starts raining and the sound of the drops beating against the windowpane steadily is soothing.

Jemma starts to feel sleepy, but she forces herself to stay awake. There are too many things to do.

She still can’t believe Fitz invited her to stay in his flat until she found something else. It’s just a transitional solution of course, but it means a lot to her.

Milton isn’t there to say goodbye. He’s at university, but Jemma doesn’t think he has a course now. She rather thinks, he wants to avoid this situation. Not surprising considering his reaction when she told him she was going to move out.

She can still picture his shocked face perfectly.  


“I’m moving out,” Jemma told him bluntly on a Thursday afternoon.

Milton froze. First, he said nothing, his mouth opening and closing as if he was a goldfish. “Are you serious?” He finally asked. “But … why?!” He really seemed aghast, he even paused his online game.

Jemma didn’t even try to tell him anything but the truth. “I’m not feeling comfortable here, Milton. This is not working. It has never really worked.”

“It’s working for me,” Milton said, frowning in utter confusion.

Jemma glared at him. “Well, of course it was working for _you_. Because when you forget to buy toothpaste or soap for the hundredth time, I go to the drugstore and buy it. Because when you don’t pick up your clothes after a few days, I do it just because I can’t stand stumbling over them all the time. Because when you decide to party all night long I don’t come yelling at you because I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of your friends. But that’s over now.” When she finished, she breathed heavily and was apparently shooting daggers, because Milton backed away slightly.

He stared at her and raised both hands in a defensive gesture. “Whoa. You know … You know you can _talk_ about things like that, right? If you have issues why don’t you want to give us a chance to work on that? You don’t need to move out immediately, Jesus. Don't you think that's a little bit rash?”

Jemma didn’t answer but there was a sour taste in her mouth. Of course. As if talking had ever helped. “I’m sorry. But it’s too late for trying to work on it. I’m leaving. In two days.”

Milton blinked and then scoffed, apparently getting angry. “Do you have a lover? Is that it? You’re moving in with _him_ , aren’t you? Is it Josh? That buff rugby player?”

Jemma groaned. “Not everything has to do with you or other men, Milton. I just want to be on my own, why can’t you get that?” The next words didn’t come over her lips without a hint of guilt, but she couldn’t supress them. “Did you honestly think there would ever be more between us? There has never been anything. I only moved in with you because I wanted to make my and your mother happy. And that’s wrong by the way. I’m supposed - no, _allowed_ \- to put my wellbeing over such things. Which I do now. Goodbye Milton.”

She left his room then, without looking back.

  
Jemma hasn’t seen Milton since that, but she doesn’t have to. She dealt with him and now this part of her life is over.

After she grabbed her things from the bathroom, the doorbell rings. She knows it’s Fitz’s dad, Phil Coulson.

He has been a great help.

Jemma didn’t want to enter the flat, while Fitz’s personal stuff was still on display. It would have felt like she’d invaded his life in a way she shouldn’t. So Fitz called his dad and Coulson was happy to help. He checked the flat before Jemma saw it, moving Fitz’s stuff into his own house and doing little things like putting fresh linen on the bed.

Now he’s going to help Jemma bring her things over to the flat.

She throws a last glance at her old room, that looks strangely empty and a bit sad. With a sigh, she turns around to answer the door.  


* * *

 

Fitz’s flat lies between a little drugstore and a charming old bookshop. When she looks into the windows Jemma is delighted to see a fluffy cat sleeping on a heap of books. She immediately knows she will spend a lot of time in this shop.

The flat is small and charming. The wallpaper is a soft light green. It reminds Jemma of fresh spring grass and she loves it. There’s a little bedroom, a living room with a kitchen unit and a bathroom. Coulson shows her around. Jemma really likes him. He’s warm and kind and has a endearing smile. To know that he raised Fitz, that he adopted this traumatized boy and helped him to become such a kind, gentle and honest man, made her like him even more.

Coulson helps her to carry her boxes inside and in the end he makes them tea.

“I’m very grateful you and Fitz let me stay here,” Jemma tells him. “I was quite desperate, since living together with my last flatmate was kind of a nightmare.”

Coulson smiles at her. “Fitz told me. He also told me how you helped him and that he wants to help you. I think you earn that. Thanks for being there for him.”

Jemma feels her face warming up. “He has been there for me just as well,” she tells Coulson. “He has helped me to understand myself better and without him, I maybe wouldn’t have had the courage to do this at all. Also he was amazing after my accident. He really is a good friend.”

Coulson nods. He looks at Jemma thoughtfully. “Fitz doesn’t open his heart easily. But when he does, he gives anything for those close to him.” He gets up, clearing his throat. “I have to leave now, to pick Robin up from school. Goodbye, Jemma. It was a pleasure to meet you. Until next time.”

And suddenly, Jemma is alone in the flat, feeling a bit anxious. It takes a while until she can look around in the flat, getting familiar with everything. But as soon as she lays down on the bed, she feels comfortable. She turns on her back, looking up at the ceiling and letting her thoughts drift for a while.

She thinks of her mother and smiles.  
  
  
Eleonore Simmons reacted to her decision way more relaxed than Jemma had anticipated. They met for afternoon tea in a lovely little café and when Jemma announced the news, her mother looked surprised for a moment, but then nodded slightly as if she’d expected something like this to happen.

“Well. Margaret will be quite disappointed,” she pointed out and Jemma inwardly groaned. Margaret was Milton’s mother and she had clearly been waiting eagerly for something to happen between Jemma and her son. As if you could get babies out of just putting a woman and a man into a flat together. It was disturbing. And a bit disgusting. Really. Why had she even been playing this - their - game for that long?!

“I’m sure Milton will find another flatmate soon enough. One that likes dubstep and drunk screaming around half past midnight.” Jemma murmured and took a sip of her tea.

“But where are you going to stay?” Her mother asked worriedly. “Do you already have a flat you can afford? I mean … We can help you out of course. You just need to ask, darling.”

“I know, mum. But please don’t worry. I have been searching for a while and didn’t get anything, but … You remember Fitz? My … best friend. He loaned me his flat for now. It’s just a transitional solution, of course, and I’m going to pay a part of the rent.”

“Fitz,” Eleonore Simmons said. “Yes, I remember him of course. You didn’t stop talking about him on the phone. He’s a charming young man.” She glanced at Jemma over her teacup, one eyebrow rising slightly.

Oh no …

“Please Mum,” Jemma said quickly, rolling her eyes. “He’s my friend and wanted to help. That’s all.”

“Hmm. Alright,” her mother said, clearly not convinced, judging by the twitch of her lips. “It’s really generous of him to borrow you his flat. But doesn’t he need it for himself?”

“Fitz isn’t ready to leave the hospital, mum. He went through a lot. I don’t want to talk about it in detail, because I don’t know if he would be okay with it. We’ve been helping each other a lot and I’m glad to have him as a friend.” She finishes with a pointed look at her mother, indicating she won’t say anything more to this.

Eleonore nodded and smiled, taking a bite of a pink macaron.

  
Even though Jemma feels comfortable in the flat, it’s a bit strange to lay in the bed Fitz has been laying in for many nights. It’s like she can feel his presence. There’s a little crack in the ceiling and she asks herself, if Fitz looked at it like she is doing now. Suddenly, she wonders how it would be like, if they laid here together, side by side.

The imagination creates a nice fluttering feeling in her belly. She feels so comfortable with Fitz, it certainly wouldn’t be strange to share a bed with him. Maybe it would feel as good as laying her head on his shoulder while they’re watching movies.

Now, she’s missing him.

Misses his warmth and his by now so familiar scent.

Jemma hopes Fitz is okay. Hopes he has a good restful night without any bad dreams. She wishes him to wake up refreshed and full of energy.  

After a while, she falls asleep. Her sleep is peaceful.  


* * *

 

When Jemma visits Fitz the next day, he’s behaving quite skittish.

They continue a move they didn’t finish the other day, but he doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate on it.

His hands don’t stop moving, going from fumbling at the buttons of his shirt to scratching the back of his hand and sometimes, he flaps them near his chest while breathing in deeply, his eyes flicking over her face.

Eventually, Jemma asks him amused, “Fitz, what’s on your mind?”

He flinches and clears his throat. “Um. Well. Ah.” He scratches the back of his head and his brow furrows. It seems like he’s thinking about something very hard and she’s waiting patiently.

Finally, Fitz blurts out, “I, uh, was working on something.” He blushes. “And it’s … It’s in the art room. Could you …”

“Sure,” Jemma says curiously. “Lead the way.”

Fitz smiles at her and gets out of bed effortlessly. He’s moving so much faster and more certain now, than he has done weeks before. Jemma also notices his shirt isn’t that baggy around his body anymore.

She follows Fitz through the hallway to the art room. It’s open but there’s no one in there. The windows are open and a soft breeze blows, making the paper on the canvases rustle softly.

Fitz leads her to a canvas in the back, which is covered with a white linen.

He stops in front of her, looking at her, biting his lip. His face is very red and he holds on to his own hand, squeezing it tightly. “Um. I … I did this painting. I hope you like it. Just … Yeah. I’m going to show you. Now.” He pulls away the linen and reveals a painting.

Jemma gasps.

It’s her. It’s her face on the canvas, looking back at her. Her reflection is smiling and there is a slight blush on her cheeks, eyes sparkling. It’s breathtaking, beautiful … _Oh_ it’s stunning. She can’t believe it’s a painting and not a photo. When she can breathe again, she looks at Fitz who watches her, his hands clenched into tight fists.

“Oh. Fitz. I’m … I don’t know what to say. It’s … It’s so beautiful. Thank you. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever got,” she tells him in a shaky voice, hugging him.

He goes a bit rigid in her arms but after a moment he relaxes and  hugs her back, chuckling. “I’m glad you-you like it.”

Jemma backs away slightly to smile at him. “I love it! Can I put it on the wall?”

Fitz looks almost surprised. “Um. Yeah. Sure. If you want to.”

Jemma beams. “Thank you. You’re so talented, Fitz. Really. You're the most talented person I know."

Fitz smiles carefully, not looking fully convinced, but pleased. The smile makes his eyes sparkle and in the sunbeams that fall through the window, they shine in a bright ocean blue. Jemma stares into them transfixed, her heart fluttering, a single thought reverberating in her mind, quiet and timid, yet persistent:  _Oh Gosh. I think I’m in love with you._

 

[Fitz]

  
Right now, Fitz has good and bad days, and those in between.

He spends his best days with Jemma or Coulson and Robin. Jemma is living in his flat now. She says she’s sleeping better and that alone is enough to make Fitz’s world a little bit brighter. They have started to watch Doctor Who and sometimes, Jemma lays her head on Fitz’s shoulder, her breath tickling the skin behind his ear. He wishes this moments could last forever, but of course they don’t and he learns to cherish them, storing them in a happier place in his mind, for the other, worse days.

Okay-days are filled with him trying to un-mess his thoughts together with his therapist. It’s not easy and never pretty. Every corner of his mind is filled with memories that he rather wants gone. Most of them involve Alistair. A few are about the bullies in school. He shakes through them, anxious and angry. But with every memory that leaves the cage he locked them into in his mind, he also feels stronger. He comes out of the sessions feeling drained and exhausted. Sometimes he tries to read. He’s halfway through the book Coulson brought him. He’s really slow – in the days before the accident he would have read it in less than two days – and sometimes he falls asleep with the book on his chest, but he feels like he makes little steps forward every time he’s turning another page.

The worst days are those on which he wakes up and knows the world has nothing to offer for him today. Days on which he wants to dissolve in the void. He pulls the blanket over his head and tries to not exist, which mostly ends with his body reminding him of how very alive he is by sending unbearable soaring pain through his head. Sometimes he starts crying then, because he feels like a failure for not being able to stop being like this. So pathetic and useless. Sometimes he gets angry too, white hot rage filling every cell of his mind. He tries to not hurt himself in these moments, rather punching a pillow or throwing something against the wall – with a silent apology to Mack and every other nurse. On these days, he doesn't want to eat, talk or move. He just is, forcing himself to do the most simple tasks only when Mack asks him too in his gentle but persistent voice. And after the tiniest motion, Fitz feels like falling asleep.

Even the worst days end eventually. But not without leaving fresh scars inside and outside.

Only, he discovers that the scars can’t hurt him that much anymore.

Fitz feels like he can accept them easier now when he’s looking into the mirror of his soul.

Time passes. The different kind of days pass.

Three weeks are gone when Doctor Addington asks him what’s next and Fitz looks at her confused.

“Next?” He echoes, his brows furrowing.

The therapist smiles. “You made a lot of progress, Fitz. You’re eating regularly, you’re doing your physical therapy, your speech improved and you’re less anxious, right? So I think you should try to take some more steps, towards a higher goal.”

Fitz swallows. It’s true. There are less panic attacks and nightmares. He even noticed that he has gained a little weight lately. But still … What does she expect him to say now?

There’s a moment of silence where he thinks and the therapist is watching him. She doesn’t press the subject and Fitz knows this all too well by now. Silence works the best. It gets him to talk almost every time. “I don’t know, what-what you want to-to hear,” he tells her honestly.

Doctor Addington hums. “What do you think about the future?” She prompts him.

Fitz shrugs. “Well. I thought about picking up my studies sometime. When I, um, would be-be able to. And … And I think I want to do something that helps people who get hurt in accidents. Who lose a limb. I could build prosthetics. I think it’s something that would make me, um, happy.”

Doctor Addington smiles. “These sounds like good goals.”

Fitz frowns. “Yeah. Well. It’s too-too early, right?”

The therapist shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

Fitz stares at her confused.

Doctor Addington clears her throat. “Let me suggest you something. I would like to apply you to the intensive outpatient program. It means you would be released and reintegrate into your life, while you still would come here for regular therapy sessions and evaluations for at least six weeks. The sessions take longer, from two until five hours and they would take place on four or five days a week, but you will always be able to go home after them.”

“You … you would let me leave?” Fitz asks, aghast. This is the complete opposite of Randall, who always said he should be monitored closer, no matter how Fitz felt he was doing. He’s a bit overwhelmed at the thought of walking out of this ward and anxiously grabs his bad hand which started trembling again. “But … My-my suicide attempt …”

“Do you feel like you want to take your life?” Doctor Addington asks him very directly and Fitz flinches and absently brushes his fingers over the hidden scar on his wrist. “No,” he says. It’s the truth. There was a time not that long ago when he thought life would never be something he didn’t want to miss. But now there were a lot of bright spots and things to look forward to. Like the next Doctor Who Episode. Or Robin’s birthday. It’s in three weeks. He suddenly realizes he maybe would be able to be at home for her birthday and shifts on the couch restlessly. This can’t be true. It’s too good to be true …

Doctor Addington smiles at him. She looks like she senses his doubts. “If I would think you’re an immediate danger to yourself or others, I wouldn’t mention this option, Fitz. You made a lot of progress lately and I think you have a good circle of close ones to support you. Also I believe it’s important that I as your therapist show you that I trust you. But if you don’t feel like you can do this right now, then you should wait. Remember, you have time. You can still do everything you want to.”

Yes. They were discussing his way of thinking of this as stolen time plenty.

Fitz worries his lip. Is he really ready to leave after all this time? There would be an overwhelming amount of choices he would have to make on his own. So many opportunities. So many sensations. “I need to-to think about it,” he says, worrying his lip.

Doctor Addington nods. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

 

* * *

 

Fitz thinks about Doctor Addington’s suggestion for three days.

He talks to Mack and to Coulson about it. They both react in a approving way and Coulson tells him he could return into his old room until he feels well enough to be on his own again.

So Fitz decides to be brave, because he promised himself to try.

“I want to do it. Take part in the, um, outpatient pro-program,” he tells his therapist in the next session.

She smiles at him. “Great. I'm glad. Where are going to stay after you leave the hospital?"

“I would return to my dad’s house. Live with him and Robin. My little sister.”

“That sounds good,” Doctor Addington says, making a note. “Let's see ... I’ll create your therapy schedule and we’ll make a psych evaluation, then you can prepare to leave in a few days, alright?”

Fitz gulps. This … this is going really fast. His throat clenches.

Doctor Addington seems to sense his uncertainty. “You can do this, Fitz,” she tells him softly. “And if there’s anything, you can always call in. You can always return, even just for a night or two.”

Fitz nods. “Thank you. For everything,” he says quietly. He firmly believes, he would have never even get to this point with Doctor Randall.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Fitz reveals the news to Jemma, curious about how she’s going to react.

“Doctor Addington thinks I’m stable enough to leave the hospital," he says almost casual, after they devoured the sandwich Jemma brought with her.

Jemma’s eyes widen. She beams at him. “Really? Oh Fitz, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”

Fitz hums. “I’ll still be co-coming here for therapy sessions. But I would be able to-to go home after them.”

Jemma smiles at him. “I’m happy for you. You’re going to need your flat back, right?”

“No," Fitz hurries to say. He doesn't want Jemma to be concerned about anything."Not yet. I’m going to live with my dad for a-a while. Till I, um, get used to not being ... being here anymore.”

“I see. I’m really happy for you, Fitz. This is an important step.” She doesn’t say anything about how they will still meet after he’s out of the hospital, but he thinks they can talk about this later. By now, he doesn’t think she would just abandon him anymore.

They’re best friends after all.

  
[Mack]

It’s a sunny Monday when Mack helps Fitz to pack his things.

Fitz is quiet. And very focused on the task, his hands never stopping their movements, putting books and clothes into a suitcase. Mack guesses he’s excited and maybe a bit overwhelmed by the fact he’s going to leave. That’s normal. And it will pass. He’s sure of that.

While he’s happy for Fitz, it’s still a bit sad to see him leave. He got used to the guy. It won’t be the same without him. But Fitz deserves to move on and after everything he's been through - the abuse and neglect, the accidentand the brain damage, the suicide attempt and everything that followed - Mack is beyond proud of Fitz deciding to take this difficult step. 

“So. That’s it, right?” Mack asks when they finish and the room is very empty, smiling down at Fitz warmly.

Fitz looks at the suitcase and swallows. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Mack. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I … I want to be. But … I don’t know.”

Mack lays a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You spent such a long time here and changes are always scary. It’s completely normal to feel like you do. But you’re strong. You can do this. You’re not alone, yeah?”

Fitz smiles at him, exhaling shakily. “Yeah. Thank you Mack. You … You were always, um, there for me. If you want to, we could, uh, meet for tea sometime?”

“I’d love that, Turbo,” Mack says gently, feeling happy about Fitz still wanting to be in contact. They might have been nurse and patient, but right now, their relationship feels like a friendship too.

They hug and Fitz clings to him for a moment. But eventually, Mack gently backs away, saying, “Goodbye Fitz. I wish you all the best for the future."

“Goodbye Mack,” Fitz says, his voice trembling slightly. He grips the handle of the suitcase, throws a last look into the room, and breathes in deeply, before walking away slowly, never looking back.

Mack looks after him and feels happy for him. God, Fitz deserves so much happiness. Mack really hopes he’s going to get it and is going to allow himself to enjoy it.

 

[Fitz]

  
When Fitz steps out of the hospital’s front entrance, he blinks into the light and a thousand different sensations hit his mind with full force. He sways on the spot and holds on to the suitcase tightly. A car honks and he flinches. People are walking past him in a colourful blur, laughing and talking way too loud … Fitz starts to feel anxious.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should walk right back into the hospital, throwing himself on the bed and burying his head under the blanket. It would be silent. It would be …

“You’re okay?” Coulson asks and lays a hand on Fitz’s shoulder.

Fitz gulps. He returns to reality, focusing on his father, who is standing beside his car with which he promised to pick Fitz up. Coulson looks at him with fondness and slight concern.

“Yeah. Um. Just a little over-overwhelmed,” Fitz tells him, rubbing his eyes. “Can we … can we please …”

Coulson gets it. He always understands so fast … “Of course.” He takes the suitcase and puts it into the boot. Then he opens the car door for Fitz. “Let’s get home. Robin and I prepared a little something.”

Fitz nods, quickly getting inside the car. At least, it’s calmer inside.

Coulson doesn’t turn the radio on because he knows Fitz. He just starts the car and drives them home.

After a while, Fitz leans his face against the cool windowpane and closes his eyes. He feels a lot of things right now. It’s like his mind is a busy bee swarm. He hopes it’s going to be better once they’re home.

  
The little something Coulson mentioned is Fitz’s favourite banoffee pie and a heap of new books, three about monkeys and two for his studies. There’s a welcome home banner, just like in the movies. Robin also drew him some pictures and Fitz feels heavy with emotions. Robin hugs him for a long while, pressing her face against his chest. It feels good to hold her. It feels good to smell familiar scents and being somewhere where a lot of pleasant memories are floating around.

They sit on the couch to eat the pie and watch TV. Frozen is on. Robin squeals in delight and Fitz smiles. He has watched that movie with Jemma. He loves it.

Although it’s still quite early in the evening, Fitz feels the sleepiness creeping in every cell of his body with every passing minute. His limbs start to feel heavy and his eyes slip closed a few times. He yawns and Coulson eventually notices. “Do you want to go to bed?” He asks, taking the plate from Fitz and putting it on the coffee table. “I prepared your room.”

Fitz just nods, even too tired to answer.

His old room still looks the same. There are the monkey posters on the walls and the book heaps on the floor, beside boxes of lego. Coulson never told him to change his room. He always accepted Fitz’s kind of order.

Fitz opens the wardrobe and finds a few new clothes, including a pyjama. Grateful, he puts it on and climbs into the bed, breathing heavily. He’s so exhausted … In a moment, he thinks, Mack will come with his meds. But then he realizes, he’s not in the hospital anymore, which sends him into an anxiety fit for a long minute. How is he supposed to do things now?

Instead of Mack, Coulson enters the room, after knocking on the doorframe lightly. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?” He asks.

“Need – need to ta-take my meds,” Fitz murmurs, his stutter worse because of his sleepiness.

Coulson nods and leaves. He returns a moment later with the pill bottle and a glass of water. He hands Fitz a bottle, but after a while of desperate fumbling, Fitz realizes he can’t open it. His hand is shaking too bad. Great. He’s handling not being in the hospital just great …

He makes a frustrated noise and drops the bottle. Coulson picks it up. “Can I help?” He asks.

Fitz nods in defeat.

Coulson opens the bottle with one movement and shakes two of them into Fitz’s hand, watching him throwing them into his mouth. After, he hands Fitz the glass of water, but Fitz can’t take it with his trembling hand and Coulson ends up supporting his head, gently putting the glass to his lips to let him drink.

Fitz feels utterly useless. His face burns. When Coulson puts the glass away, Fitz mutters, “This is … is odd, isn’t it? I mean … I’m an adult. Not a child. And … And I shouldn’t have to, to ask for help with things like that. Should be-be able to-to do it on my own. It’s kind of, of pa-pathetic.” He looks aside and swallows around the lump in his throat.

Coulson shakes his head. He sits on the edge of Fitz’s bed and says, “Hey. I’m happy, so happy to have you here. I missed you. Listen. Being an adult doesn’t mean you have to be independent and strong and on your own all the time. You are allowed to get help with everyday things or to get emotional comfort. And you’re not pathetic. Never think that. Think of in what place you were not that long ago and where you are now. Leaving the clinic was such a brave thing to do and I’m so very proud of you.”

He smiles. Fitz manages a timid smile in return, feeling better and a lot warmer after Coulson’s words. “Thank you. Thank you Dad,” he says, feeling his eyes getting heavier. He closes them. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Goodnight, son,” Coulson says, stroking a hand through Fitz’s curls once, before leaving the room quietly.

Fitz falls asleep almost immediately. His sleep is peaceful and dreamless.


	9. Fitz

When Fitz wakes up, he’s lost. Disorientation and confusion creep in as he blinks and tries to take in reality. The pillow feels and smells different. The blanket is lighter than usual, the bedsheets aren’t white but blue. His senses scream in alarm for a long moment until he realizes he’s not at the clinic anymore. He’s back at Coulson’s house. Home.

Fitz sighs and turns on his side, throwing a look out of the window. A maple tree sways softly in the wind and Fitz remembers with a sudden jolt of joy, that once, there was a squirrel living in it. It sometimes sat on the windowsill, munching on a nut. Fitz put some walnuts out there in winter and the squirrel always fetched them.

Fitz smiles and closes his eyes, yawning. With the realization that he’s not at the clinic anymore, comes the thought that he could fall asleep again without problems. There won’t be someone knocking at the door of his room to remind him to get up, to eat, to take his meds – Oh. He should probably do exactly this, before he forgets it. Fitz sighs and opens his eyes again, reaching for the bottle on the nightstand. At least now, he can get it open without help.

After he swallowed the pills, a new smell starts to float through his room. Pancakes, he realizes. His mouth starts to water and his stomach growls. Of course, he thinks. It’s Saturday. Coulson always makes pancakes on Saturdays.

Despite he is hungry, a part of him still considers falling back asleep is the better option. But he’s pretty sure that isn’t because he’s particularly sleepy. In fact, he has had almost ten hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. That has to suffice. He guesses it’s the part of him that’s scared of the change. Getting up means having countless options. Staying in bed and closing his eyes is easy. Fitz sighs and does what he’s been doing a lot lately, he forces himself to choose the scarier and more difficult option. He gets up and stretches, trying to make pancakes, Coulson and Robin the centre of his thoughts. It works pretty well and after a moment he pads to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

  
When Fitz comes into the living room, he’s met with a lot of smells and noises. He remains at the door for a moment, taking it all in. 

Coulson is standing in the kitchen; the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, while he’s turning pancakes around in a pan. Robin is already sitting at the table, pouring cereals out of an enormous pack into her bowl until it’s so full the colourful crispy pieces almost fall out.

“Good morning!” Coulson calls when he notices Fitz. 

Robin perks up and beams when she sees Fitz. There’s milk on her cheek and she wipes it away with her sleeve, waving to him.

“Morning,” Fitz answers, scratching the back of his head. 

Coulson puts a plate with a huge pile of pancakes on it onto the table. Chocolate chips and blueberries. The combination contains memories.

Fitz approaches and smiles when he notices the glass of milk beside his bowl and sees that there’s no butter on his toast. Everything’s the same as before he moved out to live on his own. He likes when things don’t change.

“How did you sleep?” Coulson asks him, placing a full bottle of syrup beside the impressive heap of golden pancakes.

“Fine,” Fitz says, reaching for the orange juice. He’s relieved when his hand barely trembles while he’s carefully pouring himself a glass, but he still grabs the straw that lies beside his plate, because Coulson is the most thoughtful person Fitz knows.

Coulson sits and reaches for the cereals. “Robin had an idea for tomorrow, but you have to decide if you’re up for it, alright? Be honest,” he tells Fitz.

“Uh. Okay,” Fitz says carefully.

Robin looks up at him with wide hopeful eyes, revealing a grin that misses at least three teeth. “Zoo?”

“Oh,” Fitz laughs. He remembers … They have been at the zoo a long time ago. Robin has been younger, back then, but she apparently remembers how happy she has been, cheering at the monkeys, eating ice cream and drinking lemonade … It has been a nice day. Fitz wouldn’t have nothing against relieving that memory, but … he starts to get worried. What if he destroys the mood because he has a panic attack? He has lived so long now with everlasting anxiety. But then he remembers Doctor Addington’s words. She thought he was fine enough to leave the clinic and return into his life.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he tells Robin and Coulson. They both smile. Robin cheers and dives back into her cereals.

“You know, you could ask your friend Jemma if she wants to join us,” Coulson says casually while cutting Robin’s pancake into pieces.

Fitz looks at him surprised. “Oh. Um. Yeah I could do that.” The thought of having Jemma there is pleasant. He loves to spend time with her and this way she could also get to know his family better.

When he calls her later, she says yes almost immediately and his heart swells.

 

* * *

 

  
The next day starts promising. The sun is shining, and the sky is a bright lapis blue. There’s not a single cloud.

Fitz awakes with a feel of rare confidence and actual anticipation. He embraces these emotions carefully, with a still lingering sense of uncertainty and the everlasting fear everything could crumble again as quiet but persistent background noise.

Robin’s excitement is infectious. At breakfast she bops up and down on her chair, barely able to eat her cereals. Later, she draws a dozen pictures in marvelling speed, picturing the animals she wants to see. A tiger, monkeys, a giraffe. Fitz loves how her animals are always smiling and how she doesn’t really care about “real colours”. Her tiger is blue and her giraffe sparkles in rainbow colours and he thinks that's beautiful.

The car drive is quite long but Fitz and Robin play her favourite on the road game: counting cars in a specific colour, and the time passes quickly.

There aren’t a lot of people waiting in front of the zoo, which is a relief.  

When they get out of the car, Robin immediately takes Fitz’s hand and he smiles down at her, seeing her eyes sparkle in excitement.

Jemma is waiting for them at the entrance. When Fitz sees her, his heart fills with joy. It rushes through him like a wave, washing away the worried thoughts. She’s beautiful in her yellow dress. Her hair is floating in the mild breeze and she raises a hand to stroke it back. She notices them, a smile spreading on her face. She waves and approaches them.

Jemma shakes Coulson’s hand and hugs Fitz lightly. When she looks at Robin, the little girl presses against Fitz’s leg, looking up at Jemma with a tiny shy smile. She chews on her finger.

“Jemma, this is my sister Robin. Robin, this is my best friend Jemma,” Fitz introduces them, nudging Robin softly. She takes her finger out of her mouth and says, “Hello.”

Jemma smiles, crouching down to be on eye level with the little girl, reaching out her hand. “Hey Robin, nice to meet you.”

Robin shakes her hand, but quickly lets go of it, pressing her face against Fitz’s leg. Jemma laughs and straightens.

Coulson smiles at them. “Let’s go inside.”

 

They pass a large meadow first. There are a few giraffes on it, chewing on hay and wagging their tails to chase away flies. Two ostriches are sunbathing, their long necks stretched out. Robin leans on the railing, looking at the giraffes with wide eyes. “Big,” she states soberly and Fitz laughs. “Yes. They are very big. Do you think you’re going to be as big as them one day?”

“No!” Robin shakes her head furiously and looks at Fitz like he did just say something very ridiculous. He chuckles.

After the giraffes, they come to a large hall which promises an authentic jungle experience. They haven’t had that when they were here the last time and Fitz is thrilled because a sign tells them there are monkeys roaming the exhibit freely. Robin cheers at that and pulls at his hand, eager to get inside.

It almost feels like walking through a real jungle. The air is warm and heavy. All kinds of exotic plants surround them. Butterflies sit on the most colourful flowers Fitz has ever seen. They walk past flabelliformed fern and huge banana trees. Jemma can tell him the name of every plant, cheerily rambling off information. Eventually, she stops, blushing lightly. “Sorry. I must bore you with all these plant facts,” she says, chuckling nervously. But Fitz shakes his head. “No. Please go on. I’m enjoying learning from you.” Jemma smiles and continues. In return, Fitz tells her everything he knows about squirrel monkeys, which are jumping around in the trees right above their heads, twittering.

One of them sits on a branch right beside Robin, munching on a little carrot stick.

Robin points at it, laughing bright and careless. The noise makes Fitz feel warm inside. He looks at Jemma, who smiles and links arms with him. She smells nice. Like strawberries and sun cream.

Fitz notes he feels good. Way better than he expected he would. He’s at a nice place with people he loves and he feels alive in a way he hasn’t felt for a long while.

They stay inside the hall for a long while, trying to find all the species that are supposed to be in there. Jemma discovers a colourful chameleon, staring down at them from a tree with big googly eyes. Robin even finds a tiny blue frog. She crouches down to study it, her eyes filled with fascination. It eventually jumps away and she giggles.

When they leave the hall, they are sweating and the air outside feels so different, hitting them fresh and cold. It was a nice experience, Fitz thinks. Jemma is still linking arms with him. They walk in unison, while Coulson and Robin follow them.

They go to the predators next. Robin finds her tiger and watches it in awe, sitting on the railing while Coulson holds her steady.

When they walk on to the lions, Fitz notices he’s getting tired pretty quick.

He hasn’t been on his legs that long for quite a while and he feels the exhaustion creeping in, although he fights it. He notices, that Jemma gets slower too, her facial expression getting a bit tense. She doesn’t wear a brace anymore, but he guesses her leg isn’t at 100 percent yet. Neither of them says something about it though. We are both horribly stubborn apparently, Fitz muses.  

They walk another half an hour and he thinks he can do it, but then he has to support himself on the railing of an exhibit, because his legs wobble. His breaths get heavier and he sways slightly. Jemma throws him a concerned look and squeezes his arm. “Okay?” She asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Fitz nods. He doesn’t want anyone to worry.

“We can go to the playground over there,” Coulson suggests, ever the observer. “Robin can play while we sit for a while.”

Fitz agrees, feeling grateful. “Good idea,” Jemma chimes in. “I think my leg needs some rest too.” She strokes Fitz’s arm. The little touches between them so natural by now. A silent comforter.

At the playground, they get some ice cream. Jemma, to Robin’s fascination and slight happy disgust, chooses one with a chewing gum in it. “Ew,” the little girl makes and grimaces. Jemma laughs. “It has been my favourite since my childhood,” she explains. Robin shakes her head, but she smiles at Jemma and Fitz thinks she likes his friend. He yawns, not able to hold it back anymore. He feels quite sleepy.

Coulson notices. He looks at his watch. “It’s early evening already,” he states. “We should head home soon.”

Robin groans although she almost falls asleep, leaning against Coulson. But after she’s promised a stuffed animal at the exit, she can barely wait to get there.

  
Coulson offers Jemma to drive her back to the flat and she agrees gratefully. Fitz is relieved when he can finally sit and stretch his aching legs. He’s drained but he also feels proud. He managed the whole zoo visit without crutches, without a panic attack and without feeling like he doesn’t deserve happiness. It’s pretty uplifting.

Robin falls asleep in her seat after only a few minutes, clutching her new stuffed squirrel monkey to her chest, and Fitz feels his eyes getting heavier and heavier. He tries to stay awake but eventually loses the fight against his exhaustion.

When he opens his eyes again, they are almost at home and he realizes he must have fallen asleep. He’s a bit embarrassed, but then he notices that Jemma’s hand is near his, her fingers almost brushing his. She’s looking out of the window, a light smile on her face.

Fitz watches her and his heart aches, shaken by strong emotions. He could get used to this. To being with her every minute. He wants to hold her hand, wants to see her happy and safe. Wants to …

Am I in love with her? He asks himself, stunned.

It could be.

He suddenly remembers Coulson’s words about love.

 _“You never want to be without them. When they’re not around, you feel cold and you yearn for their warmth, for their smile and touch. They may make you laugh and cry, and sometimes there are dark clouds, thunderstorms even, but they will pass - and no matter what, it always feels_ _right_ _to be with them.”_

It feels like this. So much he wants to despair. Because even if … She won’t feel the same. Why should she?

Fitz closes his eyes again. It hurts to look at her at the moment. It’s as if he’s been looking into the sun for too long.

 

* * *

 

After they brought Jemma home, they return to their house, the rest of the day passing in a slow and calm way.

“Will you read to me?” Robin asks after Fitz has helped her getting ready for bed.

Fitz yawns. He’s so sleepy, he just wants to fall into his bed and close his eyes. But Robin looks at him with big hopeful eyes and how could he say no to this? To her?

“Alright,” he says and Robin cheers, running off to pick a book from her shelf.

They lay into her bed together and Fitz starts to read. It’s a story about a rabbit who leaves his den to go on an adventure and eventually falls in love with a mouse.

Robin snuggles against him, laying her head on his chest, looking at the colourful pictures in the bed, feeling the gaps between her teeth with a finger.

When the story is finished, Fitz closes the book. “Time to sleep,” he says. Robin hugs him firmly. It feels good. Warm. Soft. Fitz wraps his arms around her slim body and smiles into her hair. “I really missed you,” Robin whispers into his ear.

“I missed you too,” Fitz says.

They stay like this for a long moment. When Fitz lets go of her, pulling the blanket over their bodies, she looks up at him sleepily and smiles. “Jemma is nice.”

“Yeah? Do you like her?”

“Yes. Can she be there more often?”

“Maybe. If she likes to,” Fitz says, running a hand through Robin’s hair.

The little girl studies his face. “You like her too.”

Fitz nods. “I do.”

“Like the rabbit likes the mouse?”

Fitz swallows. “Maybe,” he says carefully. Maybe.

Robin closes her eyes and smiles. “Good. I think she likes you like that too.” She falls asleep quickly, her head leaning against Fitz’s shoulder. Her breaths get even and soft.

Fitz looks at her, questions running through his head. He can’t find an answer right now, so he just closes his eyes too, listening to Robin’s breath and the steady ticking of the clock in the room.

Soon he falls asleep and dreams of a rabbit, leading him to a hill, pointing at the sun with a bright smile.

 

* * *

 

On Monday, Fitz has his first therapy appointment in the outpatient program. Coulson drives him to the clinic. It feels a bit strange, to go back there. He has been kind of living there and now he’s just visiting, walking through the same hallway, past the same rooms, but knowing he won’t be staying.

“How are things going?” Doctor Addington asks him, when he takes a seat on the usual couch.

“Not bad, I think? We went to the zoo on Sunday. I got tired after a while, but there were no panic attacks.”

“This is great,” the therapist says, smiling at him. “But you look like something worries you nevertheless,” she points out.

“Yeah … Well, I’m still feeling like everything could crumble the next moment. I’m asking myself when I will be able to enjoy the happy moments without being scared of bad ones that aren’t even going to happen.”

“Don’t try to fight these worries. It wouldn’t help much. Try to talk to them instead. Tell them that it’s okay they are there, but that you want to enjoy the present moment right now. Remember, the point is not to forget or defeat anything. Worry and fear are normal things to feel. But they shouldn’t be in the focus all the time. And that’s what we’re going to work on.”

They work on it quite long. Like the therapist told him, the sessions are longer now, and Fitz feels it. He’s drained when he leaves the office, too many thoughts busying his mind. He will have to bring them into an order later. But not now.

Coulson waits for him. Fitz is grateful, when he’s not pressing him to tell anything. He falls asleep in the car, forgetting everything for a while.

 

* * *

 

  
A few days later Fitz decides to visit Jemma.

It means he’s going to have to not only drive with the bus, but also walk through busy streets.

Coulson offered to drive him, but Fitz forces himself to say no. He has to get more independent, if he ever wants to return to his studies.

So he takes the bus and everything goes quite well, until he steps out and right into a loud, lively crowd. He stands there frozen for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to breath even. He flinches when a car honks somewhere behind him and someone screams a few obscenities. The next moment someone bumps against him, mumbling a barely audible annoyed apology.

Fitz feels the first rush of familiar panic and wills himself to move away from the street. He looks around, trying to get his bearings. But everything looks the same and he can’t concentrate on the letters on the street signs.

 _You can do this_ , Fitz tells himself sternly, shaking his head. _Come on. Get yourself together._

But his senses are overloaded. They scream for mercy and his breath quickens when he notices he’s about to lose control.  
  
No. He can’t do this.

It’s too much.

Fitz leans against a wall, feeling cold sweat on his forehead. He doesn’t know what to do … He wants to curl into a ball and know no more. He tries to get through the haze of panic, scrambling for one coherent thought. He should … He could call Jemma. Yes. Fitz pulls out his phone and goes through his contacts, cursing his trembling fingers. Finally, he finds Jemma’s number. He hesitates, but then a wave of dizziness rushes through him, making him sway on the spot. He whimpers and calls her.

Jemma picks up almost immediately. “Yes?”

Fitz closes his eyes. He’s so glad to hear her voice. He clings to it. “Jemma …” He says helplessly, flinching when someone nearby laughs shrill and loud, the noise hurting his head. He groans.

“Fitz? Are you alright?” Jemma asks. She’s sounding concerned now and Fitz feels so stupid … He’s causing her unnecessary worries. Great.

“Uh. Not really. Sorry. I … I can’t find … Um. Could you …” He stops with a desperate sigh. His eyes well up when he realizes he can’t even talk. He’s bloody useless. And there he was, thinking he would be getting better …

“Shall I pick you up?” Jemma asks. “Fitz?” She presses, when he doesn’t answer. “Talk to me.”

“P-p-please,” Fitz says, pressing a hand against his throbbing head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Okay. Of course. Where are you?”

“Um.” Fitz looks up, trying to find some street sign. The letters blur in front of his eyes. He tries to focus and stutters the name of the street out with difficulty.

“Alright. Just … stay where you are, Fitz. I’ll be there in a minute,” Jemma tells him, hanging up.

Fitz immediately misses her voice. It has been like a saving island in the middle of an ocean of noise. He sits down, not caring about the dirt on the pavement, drawing his legs to his chest. He buries his head in his hands, trying to shut everything out.

Once, someone asks him if he’s okay. The ghost of a voice, sounding distant yet so close. Fitz just nods, mumbling something meaningless. The someone disappears in the crowd again.

After what could have been an eternity or just 15 minutes, there’s a soft hand on his shoulder and when he raises his head, he sees Jemma crouching in front of him, her eyes full of worry. “Hey.” Her voice drowns out every other noise, his mind reaches for it like for an anchor. 

“Can you stand up? It’s not very far. Just a few minutes.”

Fitz nods tiredly. He wills his body to move and gets up slowly, on trembling legs. He sways a bit, feeling dizzy. Jemma reaches out, taking a hold of his arm to support him. Some people throw them curious looks and Fitz wants to disappear in the void. What are they going to think? That he’s an alcoholic or junky? Some lost soul which doesn’t function in their perfectly working system? He lowers his head so he doesn’t have to see their prying eyes.

“Come on,” Jemma says softly.

They make their way through the crowd slowly. Fitz doesn’t even notice where they are going. He just follows Jemma’s sure steps, clinging to her mentally and physically.

“There we are,” Jemma murmurs, stopping and pulling out her keys. “Almost there …”

Fitz looks up and sees they are standing in front of the bookshop. The owner’s cat sits in the little window, watching them with wide, curious eyes. Fitz smiles. It’s much more pleasant to be observed by a cat than by countless probably judging humans.

Jemma opens the door to the house Fitz’s old flat is in and they enter the stairwell. Fitz knows there’s no escalator, but he wouldn’t have used it, even if one was there. He hates small spaces. It would have made his anxiety only worse. But the steps are difficult right now. Twice he has the scary feeling of falling backwards. He clings to the handrail, breathing heavily through the mouth. With every step, he feels more exhausted and when they are finally standing in front of the flat’s door, he’s bathed in sweat.

A moment later, they’re inside and Fitz feels a little out of place. He has been living here for a while. It’s strange to be back. He stumbles towards the bedroom with Jemma, sitting down on the bed. Jemma touches his shoulder. “I’m back in a moment,” she says quietly. When he’s alone, Fitz tries to calm his breath down, rubbing his bad hand restlessly. It’s trembling violently and he grits his teeth in frustration. At least, it’s heavenly quiet in the room. His senses stopped to scream for mercy.

Jemma comes back and hands him a mug, not a glass of water. How thoughtful … Fitz takes it with both hands, drinking gratefully. “Better?” She asks him and he nods. “Thank you … Sorry,” he murmurs.

Jemma shakes her head. “You don’t have to apologize. You got overwhelmed, didn’t you?”

Fitz nods. “It … It was too much.” He sighs. “Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I should go back to the hospital,” he murmurs. “If I can’t even deal with something like this …”

Jemma hums. She sits beside him. “I get that you’re feeling down right now. This must have been horrible. How about we do something calm now … We can watch a movie and eat some pizza? And after, you can decide how you feel and if you really want to go back?”

Fitz thinks about that. A distraction wouldn’t be the worst of ideas, he decides. “Okay,” he mumbles.

Jemma smiles at him, her hand softly squeezing his shoulder. “I’m going to order the pizza.”

They watch another Disney movie. The Lion King, this time.

Fitz likes it. The animation is amazing and the story captivating. He especially loves the relationship between Simba and his father. But then Mufasa dies and the scene is so hard to watch, his stomach feels like it’s twisting into knots. Beside him, Jemma stifles a sob and tears start to run over her face. She drops the piece of pizza she was eating back into the carton and sighs heavily.

Without saying a word, Fitz leans over to hug her. She leans into his touch. He guesses it does them both good right now. Just a healthy amount of silent comfort.

“Because of me we’re watching all these sad movies,” Jemma eventually sighs. “But … I don’t know. They remind me of my childhood and while they make me crying, they also make me feeling happy.”

“It’s alright. It’s normal for stories to be not only sunshine, right?” Fitz says with a small smile. He notices Jemma isn’t apologizing for showing emotions anymore. So she made  progress too. He’s happy for her.

They continue the movie.

It’s cute how Jemma knows the lyrics of every song, singing them along. She’s a good singer, her voice bright. Fitz enjoys listening to her. He isn’t a good singer, at least he thinks so.

He feels a lot better now.

Maybe he doesn’t have to go back to the clinic after all. He can accept what happened today to be a setback. He learned in therapy that setbacks happen. That they are normal. He shouldn’t see them as prove for anything.

It’s getting late. The sky’s colours are changing into a dark azure, stars appearing.

Fitz starts to ask himself how he’s going to get back. The thing is, he really doesn’t feel like leaving. He doesn’t want to go back out there, to the noise and people. He feels comfortable here, with Jemma. Well. He could ask Coulson to pick him up.

He calls him, but Coulson tells him he’s at the hospital. Robin hurt her wrist while playing with some other kids outside and they want to check out it’s not a break. “Are you going to be okay?” Coulson asks him, sounding tired.  

“Yeah, I’m with Jemma,” Fitz answers, chewing on his lip. “Is Robin in pain?”

“They gave her something and she dozed off, I’m sure she will be alright. Don’t worry.”

“Okay.”

He drops the phone, rubbing the back of his head. What now? The bus? His stomach clenches at the thought.

Jemma looks at him questioningly.

Fitz sighs. “Coulson can’t pick me up. He had to go to the hospital with Robin. She hurt her wrist.”

“Oh.” Jemma worries her lip. “I hope she’ll be okay. So, you have to take the bus?”

Fitz shrugs, trying not to show his anxiety too much. “Looks like it.”

Jemma seems to sense what’s going on inside of him nevertheless. Somehow, she’s really good in reading him. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against Fitz’s hand. “You could stay, you know? This is your flat after all.”

Fitz looks up at her surprised. He hasn’t thought about this option at all. The idea isn’t unpleasant, but well … “There’s only one bed,” he points out the obvious. And no couch … Sleeping on the floor isn’t a good option for either of them.

“Well.” Jemma smiles. “We are best friends. Best friends share things, right?”

Fitz frowns. What does she … Oh. Oh. “You want us to, uh, share the bed?” He asks aghast.

“I mean, it’s big enough, right? I don’t think we would shove each other onto the floor,” Jemma says jokingly.

Fitz swallows. _Friends share._ It’s nice of her to say that. But … What if he hogs the blankets? Or steals her  pillow? Or snores? Loudly? Or … Oh God, what if he moves too much in his sleep and ends up crushing her?

Jemma looks at him and her smile falters. “You don’t have to, if you feel uncomfortable,” she hurries to say. “I just thought … Well, we share the bed a lot already, don’t we? In the hospital we watched movies in your bed. And now we did it here.”

She’s right of course. The thing is, he wouldn’t be able to control himself when he’s asleep. It’s kind of a scary thought. At the same time, he enjoys the thought of being even closer to Jemma. It’s _Jemma_. “Okay,” he says quickly. “I’m okay with sharing.”

Jemma beams at him.

Fortunately, there are still some of his clothes in the wardrobe, involving a pyjama. It’s as if someone let them there on intent.

Jemma goes to use the bathroom first. When she comes back, she’s wearing a light-blue pyjama. She looks adorably young in her it, and with her hair bound into a loose ponytail. It’s strange to see her like that. At the same time it’s overwhelmingly intimidate. Jemma blushes and quickly crawls into the bed, disappearing under the blanket.

Fitz goes to the bathroom too, brushing his teeth, putting on his pyjama and uses the toilet. He takes his meds and then joins Jemma in the bed. He switches off the light and suddenly it’s so very silent, he can only hear their combined breaths.

“So,” Jemma eventually whispers. “Goodnight, Fitz.”

“Goodnight,” Fitz replies hoarsely. He closes his eyes and turns on his side, so that he’s lying with his back to Jemma. He listens to her breaths and finds them to be very soothing.

He falls asleep surprisingly quick, maybe because the day was emotionally and physically exhausting.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Fitz opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Jemma’s peaceful face.

His breath hitches and he frowns, feeling confused, until the memories of the last day come back to him all at once.

Oh.

They agreed on sharing the bed because Fitz didn’t want to leave. He must have turned around in the night, because now he’s facing Jemma and oh, she’s close. So close. Their noses are almost touching.

Fitz swallows. He considers backing away a bit. Maybe Jemma will startle when he’s that close to her. But he also doesn’t want to wake her up …

Before he can come to a decision, Jemma eyes flutter open and Fitz holds his breath.

For a moment, she seems confused, but then, a sleepy smile spreads on her face. “Hey,” she whispers.

“Hey.”

Jemma yawns and stretches. “Oh, I dreamed something wonderful. Wish I could remember. How did you sleep?”

“Hm. Fine.”

Jemma grins at him. “You talked in your sleep.”

Fitz gasps. He feels his face getting warm and knows he’s blushing a bright red right now. “I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. You told me not to steal your pudding,” Jemma chuckles.

Fitz snorts. “Well. And you were snoring,” he lies, just because he wants to see Jemma blush too. And she does. Violently. “No!” She calls out shocked.

“Oh yes. You were snoring so loud I thought a-a-a gorilla was laying beside me,” he tells her and laughs.

“Ugh, Fitz!” She throws her pillow at him. Fitz catches it and throws it right back, against Jemma’s chest.  

She shrieks. When she throws the pillow at him this time, it hits Fitz on the nose and he huffs, falling on his back.

“Oh God,” Jemma says, hovering over him, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Fitz says, “I deserved it. By the way, you didn’t snore at all. I was just jo-joking.”

“Fitz! Don’t do something like this to a lady,” Jemma chuckles. She stares down at him fondly, stroking strands of hair out of her forehead.

Fitz looks up at her and thinks he would be okay if this was the rest of his life. Looking at Jemma is like looking into the sun without hurting his eyes. He doesn’t get uncomfortable under her gaze.

Sometime Jemma’s brow furrows. She looks at him with an expression in her hazel eyes he can’t quite interpret. It’s something searching, something assessing, a question fading away in the space between them. Before it might disappear, he finds the courage to catch it somehow.

“What … what are you thinking?” Fitz asks. His throat feels dry.

Jemma smiles. “Just … a few things. That you look handsome in that pyjama. That I like how your hair looks in the morning. That I enjoyed waking up with you. And …” She looks away, blushing. “That … that I really would like to kiss you right now.”

Fitz’s breath hitches. Did she really just say she would like to kiss him? His face warms up and his heart seems to jump a loop inside his chest. He looks at Jemma’s lips. They are a pale pink and he remembers how beautiful it looks when they twist into a little smile, or when she bit her pencil in concentration or when she spread some balm on them. He imagines feeling these lips against his and his breath falters. The idea, the imagination is almost too much. It makes him feel lightheaded.  

Jemma is looking at him with something like worry in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says and Fitz realizes she’s maybe already regretting her confession. He swallows and reaches out, his fingers brushing her arm. “No. Um. I … You can do it. You can kiss me.”

Jemma inhales shakily. “I can?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she breathes. And then she leans closer. “Okay …”

Her lips brush his. Fitz holds his breath. The world falls away. It is sow and soft, comforting in a special way that words could never be. Jemma’s hand comes to rest below his ear, her thumb caressing his cheek. Their breaths mingle. Fitz is aware that he’s frozen, his lips barely moving. He’s just leaning in and feels, all his senses on fire.

He’s kissing Jemma. Jemma’s kissing him. And it feels like heaven. He starts to move his lips and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat, her hand coming up to play with his curls.

He feels like he could be doing this forever. He _wants_ to do it forever.

When they part, they look into each other’s eyes and it feels like something clicks into place.

Could it be, Fitz wonders, that she does feel the same?

He wants to ask her, but then Jemma says, “Fitz,” so quiet and soft it’s barely audible. “Can I do it again?”

“Yes,” he breathes.

She kisses him again.


	10. Jemma / Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it.  
> This is the last chapter.  
> BUT I'm planning to make this a series, with a sequel and maybe even a prequel :)  
> So stay tuned ;) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting, giving kudos. All the kudos to you, my lovely readers. 
> 
> This fic is pretty personal, it's dealing with a lot of things I'm going through. In this chapter, for example, an autistic shutdown is described. It happens from time to time, if I get too overwhelmed. If you want more information about this or anything else mentioned in this fic, you can always ask :) 
> 
> Thanks again for your support, your feedback, love y'all <3 <3 <3  
> Never forget: self-care comes first!

Jemma is kissing Fitz and it feels like a dream. They are closer than ever before, the space between them tingling with the tension of excitement.

She barely dares to breathe.

When Fitz moves his lips just a tiny careful bit against hers, she feels her heart flutter. She runs her fingers over his spine and feels him shiver.

Their breaths mingle and the delicate butterfly of a kiss becomes a bit more passionate as their lips open slightly. Warmth spreads throughout Jemma’s entire body. She sighs and it almost seems like the little noise breaks the spell. They lose the connection and back away slowly, licking their lips, fingers nervously playing over heated skin, searching for something to hold on.

Their glances shy away from each other. Fitz lays back against the pillows, Jemma remains sitting, drawing her knees to her chest in a slightly defensive gesture. She worries her lower lip. She doesn’t quite know what to think. But maybe she doesn’t have to think at all. Maybe it’s okay to just feel the echo of the kiss for now.

The world has gone radio silent.

Fitz lays an arm over his chest. He looks up at the ceiling and Jemma can only imagine what’s going on inside of him. Is he still feeling the kiss on his lips too? Maybe it wasn’t that pleasant at all. Has he kissed someone before?

Jemma feels the sudden urge to check her breath. What if it’s stale and he felt like kissing a dead hamster?  

She tells her thoughts to shut up. This is getting ridiculous. After all, Fitz has allowed her to kiss him twice. And it felt right to kiss him. So right and natural. Perfect.

Still.

Still it feels like the high recedes and is replaced by a low.

Jemma wants to ask Fitz thousand things, but she can’t grasp a single thought. She listens to his breaths and realizes that things feel a lot more serious now than they have felt when they were throwing a pillow at each other. That feels like it was ages ago. Their laughter long died in the void and now something changed.

And that _something_ is crushing her.

So it’s kind of a welcomed distraction, when her stomach growls loudly.

Jemma chuckles and shifts, stroking her hair back. She realizes just now, how hungry she is, but knows she ran out of eggs and bread. She clears her throat. “I’m really hungry. I would buy some things for a late breakfast. Alright?”

Fitz merely hums. His eyes still stick to the ceiling. The fingers of his right hand play with the blanket restlessly.

Jemma bites her lip. They will have to talk about this. Later.

She grabs some clothes and goes to the bathroom.

* * *

 

Outside, it’s mild and the almost cloudless sky announces a warm day.

When Jemma throws a look into the window of the little old library, she sees the cat stretching on the windowsill and starting to clean her head with a paw. When she discovers Jemma, she sits and tilts her head, curiosity written into the golden eyes.

Jemma smiles and taps her fingers against the windowpane lightly. The cat reaches for them with her paws playfully, her tail twitching in excitement.

The elderly librarian appears and waves at her. She knows Jemma well by now.

Jemma waves back and, with a last look at the cat, leaves in direction of the grocery store.

She can hardly concentrate on the task, the kiss and the silence after still on her mind.  Is it supposed to be like this after you kissed someone? She feels a pang of guilt. What if she completely overwhelmed Fitz? What if he felt like he had to kiss her, because if he didn’t do it, he would hurt her feelings?

She swallows. She wants to be with Fitz. She knows that deep inside. She can’t imagine not having him in her life.

He’s her best friend. The one person in the world making her feel like she’s home, safe and sound. She wished she’d known him in the past. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so lonely then.

She has never felt for someone like this. Not even remotely. And there were times in the past where she asked herself, if something’s wrong with her. All the girls around her giggled about the boys, wanted to date the star of the soccer team, wanted to be seen with him. They spend their rare pocket money on make-up and fashion magazines, glancing at Jemma with her books and she heard the word nerd whispered more than only once, feeling like they pitied her, not even understanding why.

School had been a confusing time for her. Boys were mostly a nuisance, either patronizing about her plans for the future, or straight out not a little interested in anything aside from her physical appearance.

Now there’s Fitz and he’s … he’s kind and sweet and appreciates her in a way that makes her feel more certain. But … what if she went too far? A kiss changes things. She laid her feelings into that kiss.

What if it destroyed something?

The thought makes her so anxious; she bumps into a woman who almost drops her packs of eggs. Jemma mumbles an apology, her face heating up. She hurries, feeling uncomfortable in the crowded store.  


* * *

  
  
When Jemma comes back into the flat, Fitz isn’t in bed anymore. It looks like he left it in a hurry, the blanket almost on the floor, the sheets crumpled. Her first horrible thought is: _He’s gone. He left. I really destroyed it with the stupid kiss …_

But then, she hears a noise coming from the bathroom. It’s barely there, just the hint of a sigh. Jemma frowns and puts her shopping bag on the floor. She approaches the bathroom, stopping in front of the ajar door, hesitating. “Fitz? Are you alright?”

There’s no answer. The silence is deafening.

Jemma bites her lip and puts her hand on the door handle. “Fitz?” She asks again.

Nothing.

Jemma swallows. Worry stirs in her. “I’m coming in, okay?” She inhales deeply and opens the door slowly, ready to avert her gaze if Fitz isn’t decent.

The sight in front of her makes her hold her breath.

Fitz is sitting on the floor in the tiny space between the shower and the toilet, with his back pressed to the wall, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. It looks like he’s hugging himself.

She has seen him like this before. It’s like a déjà vu. It was at the clinic, when she was making her internship and found Fitz in the hallway, in the clutches of a panic attack.

This looks familiar, but also way more intense. He’s shaking.

Jemma feels her stomach drop. Did she provoke this? Did she … No. She shoves the feelings of guilt aside. Now is not the time. Fitz is not okay and she doesn’t – can’t - know if it’s because of their kiss or because of something else, maybe a flashback. She forces herself to approach him calmly and crouches down in front of him.“Fitz?”

He doesn’t react. His eyes remain blank.

Jemma figures it won’t be a good idea to touch him, so she just sits on the floor in front of him, trying to be a comforting presence. She chews on her lip, studying Fitz’s tense appearance, the thoughts racing in her head.

She doesn’t know how much time did pass, until Fitz lets out a sigh, his body relaxing a tiny bit.

He blinks up at Jemma, frowning. “Jemma?” He asks, confused.

She smiles weakly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Fitz doesn’t answer. He stares at his hands and swallows. Jemma waits, for any word or sign.

“Can I do anything?” Jemma asks him eventually.

Fitz’s eyes flick to her face, then back at his hand, which started to run up and down his leg. “I want to-to go home,” he murmurs.

“Sure.” Jemma tries to ignore the little pinch of hurt. “I can call Coulson?”

“Please.” Fitz lowers his head, making himself even smaller. He’s gripping his knees so tightly, his knuckles are turning white.

Jemma bites her lip and gets up to fetch her phone.  


* * *

 

After Jemma phoned Coulson, telling him to please pick Fitz up, relieved he doesn’t ask questions, she goes back to Fitz, sitting in front of him again. The silence is so loud. It’s a crushing weight resting on her shoulders.

When the doorbell rings not even half an hour later, Fitz doesn’t even flinch. He looks like he moved into his own head, oblivious to the world around him. Oblivious to Jemma. And it hurts. She can’t help it.

She gets up with aching knees to open the door.

She’s surprised to see that Coulson has Robin with him. The little girl has a bandaged wrist. She’s holding on to Coulson’s leg, smiling up at Jemma shyly.

“Hello,” Coulson says with a little smile. “Brought some back up.” He hands Robin a heavy looking blanket and looks at Jemma questioningly. “Where?”

“Bathroom,” she says, anxiously playing with her hands.

Coulson nods at Robin and the girl immediately taps off to the bathroom, pulling the blanket with her.

“He reacts good to Robin in such situations,” Coulson explains, sitting at the table. “We just wait a while, alright?”

Jemma nods and sits opposite of him, biting her lip. “He shut down completely. He … he didn’t want to tell me what happened. And I didn’t know how to help him.” She lowers her head.  
She doesn’t tell him of the kiss, because she feels like it wouldn’t be fair to Fitz. She can’t tell if he wants anyone else to know.

Coulson makes a sympathetic noise and reaches out to lightly touch her shoulder. “It happens sometimes. It happened a lot in the past, when he got overwhelmed. Fitz is really sensitive to what happens around him. This is part of how he deals with such overload. You can’t do much more but to be there for him and I’m sure that’s what you’ve been doing.”

Jemma nods, feeling a bit better after Coulson’s words, although she feels confirmed in her fear this might have to do with their kiss. But that he’s overwhelmed doesn’t necessary mean he hated it and doesn’t want to see her again, right? She just clings to that thought for now. They will have a talk later, she hopes. Figure it all out.

She waits with Coulson in silence for a while, until there are noises and Fitz tumbles into the room, holding Robin’s hand, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He looks tired and Jemma feels like he’s avoiding her eyes. Jemma wants to tell him he doesn’t need to feel embarrassed or guilty or whatever emotion is making him look that lost right now, but she’s at loss for words and filled with too many sensations herself.

Everything is a bit of a blur, as Fitz leaves with Coulson and Robin, holding on to the blanket, looking at his feet.

The noise of the closing door is too loud and Jemma remains sitting at the table, still not able to catch a thought. There’s a storm of emotions brewing inside of her.

She finds herself leaving the too silent flat, walking the few steps to the library. She enters it and inhales the familiar calming scent of old and new books. The elderly librarian smiles at her, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. Jemma smiles back and sits in her usual corner, kind of randomly pulling out a book about animal’s behaviour. As soon as she starts reading, there’s a quiet meow and the library cat jumps into her lap, purring as it prepares to lay down and take a nap. Jemma smiles and buries her finger in soft fur, feeling herself calming down.

But in the back of her mind, it’s still lingering. The hope and fear. And the question: Where do we go from there?  


  
[Fitz]

 

When the panic overwhelms Fitz, he still tastes Jemma on his lips.

It starts when Jemma tells him she’s going to do some shopping. For breakfast. When she moves, the bedsprings creak and wake him up from whatever post-euphoric haze he has been floating in. The world comes back in, knocking at the door of his mind. Suddenly, he realizes what they have just done. What it means. What it could mean. What it doesn’t mean.

While Jemma collects some clothes and disappears into the bathroom, Fitz claws at the bedsheets and feels sweat breaking out on his forehead. He squirms as his senses start to groan under the pressure of the outside impressions.

Jemma has kissed him. They have been kissing.  

He has never kissed someone before. And he certainly hasn’t expected it to be like that. I felt … nice. It felt like being wanted. He looks at the side of the bed where Jemma has been sitting. He wants her to be back. Why didn’t she say anything? Did she enjoy the kiss too? Or is she regretting it? He hasn’t been good. He’s sure. It was probably like kissing a stone.

His stomach drops and he feels the first familiar hint of anxiety. What does this mean? What are they now? What is Jemma expecting? A kiss is like, well, the confirmation that there’s more, right? That they are more than friends.

Does that mean they are going to be in a relationship now?

Oh.

Is he going to have sex with her?

Of course. If they’re going to be together, as a couple … it’s normal to have sex when you’re together …  

A wave of despair rolls through him. _It’s normal_ …

He has never been normal. His father, enough of his teachers and bullies throughout every year at school made sure he would never forget that. How is he supposed to be enough? He has never been in a relationship. He doesn’t know anything about the things other people consider as normal. As standard. Jemma has probably kissed someone before. She maybe has even had sex with someone else. His stomach twists at the thought.

He’s going to be a disappointment like always.

He’s going to mess it up and Jemma’s going to tell him that it doesn’t work but they can still be friends. Like it happens in stories sometimes.

Fitz starts to feel like throwing up. He half-crawls-half-jumps out of bed, almost tripping over the blanket, stumbling towards the bathroom. He bends over the toilet and dry-heaves, his stomach contracting but not releasing anything else than burning sour bile, white foamy fluid.

Fitz suddenly feels very tired. He crumples to a heap, moving backwards until his back hits a cold wall. He draws his knees to his chest and hugs them tightly, his body beginning to tremble.

 _Look at you. You’re useless,_ his father’s voice tells him from nowhere. _Why are you like this? Why can’t you be like other sons? Why can’t you be normal?_

Fitz whimpers. It’s too much. He feels hot and cold at the same time. The noise of the water dripping from the tap is so loud, it roaring in his ears.

Fitz closes his eyes and wishes he would disappear in the void.

And then he shuts out the world.

 

* * *

 

“Fitz?”

Jemma’s voice sounds like it’s coming from a far distance.

He senses that she’s there.

But he’s too far inside and he doesn’t want to – can’t – go back yet.

He stays in the quiet place in his mind, where he doesn’t need to think or feel.

He just is.

Jemma’s presence stays. But she doesn’t try to get him out of where he’s hiding and he feels distant gratefulness. Too many people haven’t been so patient in the past, shaking him and yelling at him to snap out of it.

_Thank you Jemma …_

He doesn’t know how much time passed, when he allows himself to let some of the world back in, blinking at Jemma who’s sitting in front of him, her eyes filled with worry.

_Oh Jemma … I’m sorry._

He wishes he could tell her, that she’s not to blame for any of this. He wishes he could tell her he enjoyed the kiss. But he doesn’t trust himself right now. He’s not brave enough. He tells her he wants to go home and sees the little hint of pain in her eyes with regret.

But she nods and goes to call Coulson.

The moments after are mostly a blur of motions and colours. Robin is there sometime, cuddling up against him and wrapping him in the weighted blanket from home with sweet gentleness. He hugs her and they stay in the bathroom for another while, while he can hear Coulson’s and Jemma’s quiet voices.

When he finally trusts his legs to be steady enough and his mind calmed down, he gets up and takes Robin’s hand, leaving the bathroom. He doesn’t really look at Jemma and hopes she won’t hate him. He wants to do better next time. When he tells her that he enjoyed the kiss, that he would like to do it again, he wants to be less pathetic as he is now.

 _Forgive me Jemma …_ He thinks as he stumbles down the stairs after Coulson. _Forgive me._  


* * *

 

The next day, depression hits him like a train. With full force.

Fitz buries himself under the blanket and wills his mind to shut up. It’s a lost cause. The thoughts just keep coming. He can’t remember when the last time was he felt that useless.

He doesn’t know what time of the day it is, when Coulson comes into the room, with a tray. There’s a steaming cup of tea on it. And some sandwiches. Coulson puts the tray on the nightstand. "Thought you might be hungry.”

Fitz’s stomach revolts at the mere thought of food. He shakes his head.

Coulson doesn’t leave. “Did you take your meds?”

Fitz shakes his head. What’s the point … Nothing matters.

Coulson takes the pill bottle from the nightstand and hands it to Fitz together with a water bottle. Fitz sighs but reluctantly takes a pill, swallowing it with a sip of water that actually feels good in his dry throat. As soon as he’s done, he turns and buries his face in the pillow.

“If you don’t feel like eating right now, how about a shower?”

Fitz presses his face into the pillow firmer.

“Come on. You will feel better after. You know it, right?” Coulson urges.

He is as stubborn as Mack was, Fitz discovers. Mack … He misses the gentle nurse sometimes. Maybe he should just go back to the hospital, he can’t manage daily life on his own anyway …

“Fitz,” Coulson cuts into this thought process again, his voice warm but firm.

Fitz groans. He feels a hint of anger, immediately followed by guilt. Coulson just wants to help. Like almost everyone around him.

He sighs and forces his heavy body out of bed.  
  


* * *

  
  
He feels much better when he comes out of the shower and manages to not throw himself back on the bed immediately, but walking down the stairs to the living room, sitting at the table.

Coulson smiles at him and puts the plate with the sandwich in front of Fitz again. “Just try to eat one, alright? I can put the other ones into the fringe for later.”

He sits down opposite of Fitz, chewing on his favourite ham and egg sandwich. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Fitz shakes his head.

Coulson accepts that. “Is it okay if I tell you about the hospital stay with Robin? It was tedious.”

Fitz nods and takes a tentative bite of the sandwich. It tastes like ash and it’s exhausting to chew until he can swallow, but he forces himself to take another bite. Just one. One stupid sandwich …

He listens to Coulson talking about some drunk men who looked like they had been in a nasty beating and were telling him that Robin is a very sweet girl. And about a kind nurse who managed to calm Robin down with a stuffed tiger.

But at some point, his tired mind started drifting off again. It moved towards the thing that was buying his thoughts the most, beside the self-loathing. And he noticed how it was crushing him. So it finally blurted out of him.

“Jemma kissed me.”

Coulson stops in the middle of a sentence. He actually looks surprised, his mouth slightly open. He raises an eyebrow.

“I kissed her too,” Fitz adds. His cheeks start burning and he looks down at the half-eaten sandwich.

“Okay,” Coulson says quietly. “And?”

Fitz makes a desperate noise. “I-I freaked out. And-and now she … I bet she hates me. I didn’t even tell her I-I liked it. I just … I … Why can’t I be like a-a-a normal pe-person for one bloody time?!” He wants to scream. He wants to throw the sandwich against the next wall. He wants a lot of things. He certainly doesn’t want to cry. But he can’t hold the tears back, because his emotional walls are basically crumpled, destroyed by everything depression and his mind throw at him.

The tears are running down his face freely, and he sniffs, hiding it behind both hands.

Coulson reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think she hates you, Fitz. I think she’s a bit confused now, yes. But you can talk to her. She will understand. And what does normal even mean? You are you. And that’s wonderful. Because that’s the person Jemma wanted to kiss, right?”

Fitz sobs and wishes he could believe that without the hint of doubt still lingering. “I … I think I love her,” he says, his voice trembling.

“And do you think she loves you too?”

“I … I think so? I hope it …”

“Okay. Don’t be scared Fitz. I think you two need to talk. Talk to her when you feel like it, okay? Because you can’t read minds. You need to use words.”

Fitz nods. “I … I’ll try.”

But he neither finds the courage nor the energy to write or phone Jemma this day. He tries to tell himself that’s okay, but the feeling of doubt and guilt is still there. He can’t wait until he can sleep and goes to bed early.

 

* * *

 

Fitz wakes up screaming.

It’s dark around him and he panics all over again for a long breathless moment, until the light is switched on, blinding him.

Steps approach and he’s pulled into a hug, smelling a familiar combination of aftershave and old books. Coulson …

“Hey, it was just a dream. You’re okay.”

Fitz is pulled into a hug and he clings to Coulson’s arms while the images of the dream still float in front of his eyes. His father … the smell of booze and sweat. A slamming door and darkness … He wishes it all away desperately.

Fitz looks over Coulson’s shoulder and sees Robin standing in the doorframe, chewing on the thumb of her bandaged hand, her eyes wide. Fitz feels horrible. He woke her up. He woke them all up. He’s just a nuisance who can’t even deal with stupid nightmares like a normal person …

He starts to cry again, feeling like the most useless person in this world.

“It’s alright,” Coulson tells him, rubbing his back. “It’s alright … Let it out.”

Fitz cries his eyes empty. He wishes Jemma would be here. But at the same time he doesn’t, because he still fears that she’s sad and maybe even angry about his reaction to their kiss. And he also thinks that he doesn’t want to burden her with this. With his depressive episodes and panic attacks and stupid nightmares.

When he finally stops crying, he’s so tired, he falls back asleep almost immediately, barely feeling Coulson’s hand on his shoulder and the blanket being pulled over him.

 

* * *

 

  
The next day Fitz drags himself to therapy. He almost falls asleep in the bus, and has a horrible anxious moment after a couple started to laugh hysterically about something on their phones beside him.

When he’s finally in Doctor Addington’s office, he slumps on the couch and looks at his shoes, rather than at the therapist.

“You’re quiet today. Did anything happen?” She asks him after a while.

“I …” Fitz stops again. How is he supposed to put what’s going on in his mind into words? It’s a jumbled swirl of confusion, fear, self-loathing but also hope and warm glowing feelings for Jemma and … everything. It’s everything. It’s overwhelming.

He starts to scratch the back of his hand without really noticing and worries his lip, staring at the aquarium, where some of the smaller fishes are chasing each other through the corals.

“Fitz?”

He perks up, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. There’s a lot going on inside of your mind, I can tell,” Doctor Addington says, studying him with a frown. “Care to share? I can’t read thoughts sadly.”

“It’s too much,” Fitz says and his lower lip starts to quiver. Damn these emotions … “I can’t …” His eyes well up and his throat tightens. He doesn’t want to cry. Not again. He doesn’t want to … “Bloody hell!” He calls out, hot anger joining the despair and he feels the need to pull at his hair, but he grabs his hand instead and squeezes firmly.

“Take some deep breaths,” Doctor Addington tells him. “Do you need some water?”

Fitz shakes and barely feels the pain when his nails break the skin of his hand. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying to get the flood of emotions and thoughts under control. He feels like he’s going into another shutdown. And he doesn’t want to.

Next time Doctor Addington speaks, her voice is closer and he realizes she is standing in front of the couch. “Do you need to lay down for a moment, Fitz? You can, it’s no problem at all. We have time.”

It sounds tempting.

He finds himself slumping more, until he’s more laying than sitting on the couch. Exhaustion creeps in every cell of his body and mind. He can’t find the care to fight it anymore.

When Fitz opens his eyes next time, he feels a bit less exhausted.  He looks around confused, realizing he must have dozed off. He’s tangled in a fuzzy red blanket. He wipes his eyes and sits up slowly, feeling a bit dizzy.

Doctor Addington is there, handing him a glass of water.

Fitz takes it gratefully.

“Do you think you can talk today?” The therapist asks him.

Fitz thinks about it. He can’t. Not now. So he shakes his head.

“Okay,” she says, looking at him with a worried frown. “But I have to ask you. Did you have any suicidal thoughts today or the last days?”

Fitz shakes his head. “Just … a lot is going on. I was de-depressed yesterday. But not … not that.”

Doctor Addington nods. “And you think you can go home alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Remember, when things get too much, you can always stay, it’s okay to seek help, yes?”

Fitz nods. “Thank you. I … I just want to go ho-home.”

“Alright. Goodbye Fitz.”

“Goodbye.”

Fitz leaves the office on weak legs.

When he’s out, he stumbles along the hallway, keeping his head low. He feels embarrassed, angry at himself and overall confused, because he hasn’t felt like that for weeks and now everything seems to be covered in shadows again. He doesn’t want that. And he especially doesn’t want Jemma to see him like this, to be a victim of his stupid self-loathing and … God, he wants to kiss her again. This is bloody confusing.

Fitz stops and leans against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes.

Steps approach, and he doesn’t care who it is, not even opening his eyes. But then, the steps stop in front of him and someone clears his throat.

“Turbo. Nice to see you.” It’s Mack.

Fitz opens his eyes surprised. The nurse stands in front of him, smiling down at him gently. “Bad day?”

Fitz looks aside and sighs.

Mack makes a sympathetic noise. “ _That_ bad, huh. Want to get hot chocolate and talk about it?”

Fitz hesitates. But he looks into Mack’s warm eyes and decides he finally needs to get some of this baggage off … Mack might just be the best person to share this with.

Fortunately, the cafeteria isn’t too crowded. They sit down at a table in the corner and Mack gets them two hot chocolates with cream on top. The sticky sweet liquid is like balm for Fitz’s throat.

Mack looks at him with a smile. “Feel better yet?”

“Much. Thank you,” Fitz murmurs.

“Nothing better than hot chocolate to sweeten up a sour day,” Mack says, sipping his own and making a pleased noise. “Well, Turbo, is there anything you want to talk about?”

Fitz sighs. “So. There’s, uh, this girl I love. You know her. Jemma. Two days ago, I … We … We kissed. I … I fucked up, Mack. We kissed and I had something like a mental break-breakdown. I didn’t ma-manage to talk about it with her. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just, you know, enjoy things?” He lowers his head, staring into his hot chocolate.

Mack clears his throat. “You know, Turbo, these things really can be overwhelming. I bet she isn’t angry at you. I think if she kissed you, she wants to be with you. She’s in love with you. And that means, that you go through good and bad things together.”

“But … I’m not what she needs, Mack. Not really. Look at me,” Fitz says bitterly.

Mack smiles. “I do. I’m looking at you. And what I see, is a young, honest, gentle and smart man. The man Jemma wanted at her bedside. The man who helped her getting through a difficult time. And the man who was hurt so much but got on his feet again. I wish you could see what I see.” He smiles. “Turbo, the way she was looking at you … I’m 100 percent sure you are exactly what she needs. And vice versa. You two … you work, don’t you?”

Fitz worries his lip. Mack’s words are similar to Coulson’s. He wonders for a moment, how many more people it needs to convince him he’s just overthinking this. He knows he is. It’s just not that easy to break out of a pattern. But well, he can at least try.

“You should talk to her, Turbo. She’s probably as confused as you are. Just tell her how you feel. You know you can do that. Jemma’s not going to judge you, I’m sure,” Mack adds.

Fitz nods slowly. “I’ll try. Thank you Mack.”

“I wish you all the luck in the world, Turbo. I think you have something amazing with Jemma and you should allow yourself this happiness,” Mack tells him, smiling warmly.

They say goodbye and when Fitz walks towards the exit of the hospital, feeling much better, he pulls out his phone. He searches for Jemma’s contact, hesitating and chewing on his lower lip.

_Come on, you can do this …_

Finally, he types _. Hey. Can we talk?_

Jemma answers almost immediately. _Of course. When and where?_  
  


* * *

 

Jemma and Fitz meet in the hospital’s park, near the bench they used to sit on in the past.

They hug. It’s a bit awkward.

Fitz clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry. I … kind of freaked out.”

“Don’t apologize. I get it. It was kind of overwhelming.” Jemma chuckles nervously. “I mean, I was so nervous, I’ve never done it before and …”

“Wait. You … This was your first, uh, kiss too?” Fitz asks, disbelieving.

“Oh. Yes. It was my first kiss. I’ve never met someone I wanted to kiss before,” Jemma says, looking at him surprised. “Uh, so you didn’t kiss anyone else neither?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

They both chuckle. Fitz feels how some of the tension in the air between them disappears.

He decides to be brave. “I really liked it. Uh. Kissing you.” His face warms up.

“You did?” Jemma asks, blushing slightly. “Well. I liked kissing you too.”

Fitz inhales deeply and reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, looking at him with wide eyes.

“I just want to say, um … I … You mean so much to me, Jemma. Everything. And – and I want to give you everything. But … I don’t know if I am enough. I mean, I’m … broken. I’m barely able to function. This week alone, I … I had a mental breakdown because we kissed, I didn’t manage to get out of bed alone because of de-depression and I fell asleep in my-my therapist’s office - And I don’t know if I can ever fix what’s wrong with-with me. I … You deserve the world Jemma.” He stops, breathless and desperate. He hopes he could tell her, what he’s feeling. There’s something wet on his cheek and he notices he started crying sometime.

Jemma looks at him, biting her lip. Eventually, she squeezes his hand, and says quietly, “You don’t need to get fixed, Fitz. You’re perfect just the way you are. You’re my best friend in the world. And you don’t need to be scared. I want to be with you. Only with you. We can do things slowly. And we do what we have been doing the whole time. We’re sharing everything, from our dreams to our fears and manage life together. Like … look at me. I’m not entirely feeling whole myself. I think I’m a difficult person. Because I want to be great in everything I do, I tend to forget to take care of myself. I tend to think I don’t deserve rest or comfort, because I feel I might not be doing my best. We both have things that scare and confuse us. We both sometimes feel like we are not enough. But … we are good together, right? Let’s do it all together.”

“You really want to-to lead a relationship with, uh, me?” Fitz asks, stunned. His heart is beating inside his chest wildly.

“Of course, with you, Fitz,” Jemma says softly. “When you’re around … I feel good. Happy. Safe. Home.”

Fitz exhales shakily. “I feel the sa-same. With you.”

They smile at each other.

“Do you fancy some ice cream?” Jemma eventually asks him.

“Sure,” Fitz says gladly.

They walk towards the cafeteria together, and when Jemma slips her hand into his, Fitz feels his heart fluttering.  
  


* * *

 

Only one week later, Fitz decides to take a huge step into the future.

He goes to the university to re-apply for his studies.

The man in the office first acts like he doesn’t notice Fitz. And his ignorance offers a perfect chance to turn around and leave. He’s invisible. He doesn’t have to do this. But … no. He won’t flee again. He’s going to do this. He thinks of Jemma’s encouraging words yesterday, when they had a wonderful date in a little café, and he draws courage from that.

Fitz clears his throat and becomes visible.

The man raises his head and blinks at Fitz through thick glasses which make his eyes look small. They remind Fitz of that TV aardvark Arthur and his lips twitch as he barely contains a chuckle.

“Yes?” The man asks.

Fitz swallows. Every light feeling disappears, replaced by the heaviness of the choice he’s supposed to make.

“I … I …”

The man tilts his head, frowning.

Great. Of course now the words fail him.

Get yourself together, he tells himself.

“I want to-to apply. For the-the next semester,” Fitz gets out, clenching his hand into a tight fist. “I’ve been matriculated before, but … I had an accident. I had to drop out for a while because of it. But … I want to start again. If that’s possible.”

He gets the first smile. “Of course that’s possible. Just let me search for your documents …”

In the end, it doesn’t take long.

All of a sudden, Fitz’s holding the document in his hands that confirms he’s studying engineering at this university. He feels great.

Like he’s back again.  
  


* * *

 

“I applied for the next semester. I’m starting in four weeks,” he tells Doctor Addington at their next session.

“Great. How do you feel about that?”

“I’m glad. But … also terrified.”

“Why?”

“Well. Uh. I guess I’m scared I’m going to have a-a-a panic attack in classes or at an exam. I’m scared I won’t be able to focus because I have to think about what other people think, what they are going to think about me when they see me getting  breaking down. Maybe this was a bad idea …” He chews on his lip,

Doctor Addington smiles at him. “You know, a lot of students go to therapy, Fitz. You would be surprised how many. No one is talking about it, because unfortunately, in this system, people learned to adapt and fit in, they learned to play a role, put on a mask and keep the fact that from time to time they are not okay, to themselves. Because the system needs them to be okay. Needs them to function. But that means that problems get supressed. Which is not a healthy way to cope with them and at some point, they will show. You took the right road. You’re actively doing something for your mental health. You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Fitz says, tapping his finger against his knee. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Doctor Addington says. “And … How are things with Jemma?”

Fitz smiles a little. “We’re taking things slow. We’re going on dates now and then. Um. We are kissing. But mostly talking. We even started to think about searching a bigger flat for us. And … I love her. With all my heart. I want to be with her all the time. I want to . But … I don’t know. There’s always the what ifs again. What if I – I do something wrong. Or what if she gets ti-tired of seeing me in a slump when depression kicks in. Or …” He shakes his head. “I just don’t want to be a disappointment …”

Doctor Addington nods. “These fears are normal. You don’t need to feel bad for having them. But don’t forget that Jemma wants to be with you as well. She loves you as well. And like you help her, she helps you. But you two also need to understand, that you don’t need to get through it all alone. You should also rely on third parties like therapy, family … Being there for each other, in good and bad times, but at the same time taking care of yourself, is what means to lead a healthy relationship. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

She smiles at him. “I think you two are sharing something beautiful. And you made wonderful progress. The future is in front of you, Fitz. Embrace it.”

He nods. “I will.”

* * *

 

When Fitz steps out of the exit, Jemma’s waiting for him.

They hug and kiss. It feels so natural by now, to touch her, to feel her warmth and feel her smile against his skin.

They slowly walk through the park, towards their bench under the cherry tree.

There are so many cherries now. The tree bends under his heavy burden. He looks a bit like an old man, barely able to hold itself upright. At the same time, it’s a paradise for new life. Insects and birds feast on the cherries. The tree is living. They are living. And it’s great.

When they sit down, Jemma tells him, “I threw a look into the newspaper. There are a lot of nice apartments free right now.” She shifts and throws her hair back, and Fitz sees the excitement sparkling in her eyes. “We could have a cat.”

Fitz chuckles. “We could.”

“Cats make everything … calmer, you know?” Jemma says thoughtfully. “And they can be great comforters, when you’re feeling down.”

“Yeah. I mean, I rather would have a monkey, but …”

“Oh Fitz! You know we can’t have a monkey in the flat!”

“It’s okay. A cat is close enough I guess,” he sighs and Jemma laughs.

She leans towards Fitz and kisses him again.

It’s slow and gentle. It’s love.

And when Jemma smiles and takes his hand, Fitz knows they’re going to be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
